When We Two Parted
by Magali1
Summary: COMPLETED; Epilogue posted 8/6/2013; After Lyla suffers a devastating loss, Buddy turns to Tim to help her, where he brings her to his land to recover; Tim POV; Lyla POV; appearances by Billy, Mindy, Tyra, Buddy, Luke, Becky, Tami, and Coach; Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance-fic
1. When we two parted in silence and tears

**A/N:** This is my newest fic; it is the darkest fic I've written and is almost exclusively Tim and Lyla. As usual, certain characters pop up, Tyra and Billy make appearances, as does Tami in this fic. I wanted to write something where Tim kind of uses his land to help rehabilitate someone and that was going to be Luke and Becky, but I chickened out and couldn't write them convincingly, so I turned it to Lyla. Anyways, enjoy, I promise it's only dark for a bit and then it gets brighter. :)

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_**I. When we two parted, in silence and tears**_

I really shouldn't be here.

It's not like I know jack-freaking-shit about…whatever it was Buddy Garrity wanted him to do.

Tim sat in his truck, in the driveway of the small white bungalow in Nashville, Tennessee, wondering what Buddy expected him to do. He drove the incredible distance to get here, he felt like he was violating his parole even when he wasn't, and he still didn't know what he could do to help.

All he'd done was gone into Buddy's bar, taken a seat in front of him and reached for a beer. Apparently, that told Buddy that he was looking for something to do and someone to save. All he'd done was sit there, but Buddy pulled him into the back room and told him that he really, really could use a favor.

I helped you Tim Riggins, Buddy warned him, when he'd slumped down in his seat like he was a teenager and being told something he didn't want to hear. I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't think you couldn't help and if it wasn't the absolute last resort, believe me.

You're the only one who's been there. You're the only one who understands.

You're the only one she'll listen to.

I highly doubt that, Tim thought, tapping his fingertips against his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of her neighbors peering over, holding some fluffy dog about the size of a mop. Looked like one too. He glanced her way, waving.

It sent her running.

Well, before the cops get called, I should probably go inside. Tim opened the door, climbing out and shutting it with a hard push. He fiddled with the car keys, walking up towards the front stoop. The blinds were all pulled and there were about ten newspapers piled in front of it. The weeds needed pulling. The grass needed mowing. All the flowers were dead.

What in the hell have I wandered into, he wondered, opening up the screen door, making a move to knock, but he frowned, his hand dropping to the doorknob. He turned it slowly. On a hunch.

Which proved to be correct.

The door pushed open with an eerie creak, revealing the front hall, which was dark. There was dust floating in the air. He stepped inside, turning to close the door behind him with a loud bang.

Whoops.

Element of surprise was done, he figured, calling out. "Garrity?"

There was a rustling from the back of the house, but no one yelled back. He whistled low under his breath, his boot heels clicking on the hardwood; one in front of the other, holding his keys in front of him, scanning the little house she called home. It suited her. Small, charming, and full of coordinated colors and flowers.

He stepped into the kitchen, his eyes widening in shock at what he found.

Now this was not Garrity.

Dishes filled the sink and were scattered around the counters. Cabinets were open and mostly empty. There were takeout containers all over the place, some still full of food and others empty. He figured the trash hadn't been taken out in awhile and there were bottles scattered between it all.

Bottles of things she did not usually drink.

Tim picked up one, staring at the label. Hard liquor, he mused, setting it back with a clink, turning and picking up one of the prescription bottles on the desk in the corner, next to the fridge. He sighed. Valium. Anti-anxiety. There were other ones too, but he didn't recognize the names of them. Except for Vicodin, he recognized that one from his days in football, getting banged up all the damn time.

He glanced down at the refills. None. The bottle was empty.

Oh God Garrity what did you do, he thought, taking off his sunglasses and shoving them into the pocket of his flannel shirt. He did the same with his car keys, put in his back pocket, to leave his hands free.

The living room was where he found her, a moment later.

There was a pile of blankets on the couch, breathing slowly.

He scanned the room; more mess. Dirty clothes scattered here and there. It was very un-Lyla. He approached the couch, glancing at the coffee table, where there was a phone. He leaned over and flicked the bar over on the bottom, seeing that there were about a million missed calls and a full voicemail.

Next to the phone were another pill bottle, an empty bottle of water and a large hardcover book with a pen. He leaned for it, but a hand swiped out, knocking his away.

"It's alive," he greeted the pile of blankets. He lifted his foot up, pushing on what he assumed was her ass. "Wake up. Waaaake upppp," he drawled. He sighed, balancing himself by placing his hands on his hips, continuing to push his foot at the pile.

Come on Garrity, wake up, he thought in all seriousness, while his voice belied it, seemingly teasing. "I can do this all day Garrity. Allll day."

"Please go away," a tiny voice said from beneath the blankets, muffled. It sounded so defeated. So sad.

But always polite.

I can't do that. Wish I could, but I really can't, not now. He knelt down at the head of the couch, slowly peeling back the blankets, revealing…not the Lyla Garrity he once knew.

This Lyla Garrity had stringy dark hair pulled back from her face, but falling over it. There were creases in her cheeks from sleeping and they were puffy, probably from drinking. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, the skin around them red and puffy from crying, he had to imagine. What was left of her was in a giant sweatshirt that seemed to turn her into a tiny doll, her wrists so thin he could probably wrap his fingers around them twice.

He watched her sit up, holding her right arm against her carefully. It was in a brace; Buddy told him that it should have been removed a couple months ago, but she still wore it, why he didn't now. He stepped back quickly when she swung her legs over. There was a nasty scar peeking from under the collar of the sweatshirt, which had fallen over her shoulder. It snaked up the side of her neck, angry and puckered.

And her hair was shorter. It had been a couple months, but…it was so short.

She stood; she was so skinny.

Who are you, he wondered, his lips set in a thin line, and his clear eyes focused on her dull, watery dark ones. The pain was palpable. It seemed to be vibrating off of her in waves.

She swiped the bottle of pills from the coffee table, popping a couple out. "Should you be taking so many?" he whispered, knowing that that sounded rich coming from him. Addiction wasn't lost on him, but he'd never spiraled into pills. Just beer.

"What are you my sponsor?" she snapped, swallowing the pills dry, tossing them onto the table. She grabbed the book and pen, hugging them against her and stepping around him, lifting her eyes up again.

It was like he got slapped. That's what it felt like; with the look she gave him.

Go away Tim.

You shouldn't even be here.

She shook her head slightly, whispering. "My dad couldn't be bothered to come out here so he sent his dog to drag me back to Dillon, huh?"

Hey now, he thought, his brow flickering. That's not very nice. He cleared his throat, not fighting back the way he probably normally would have with her. Don't engage her, he figured. "He sent someone who could kick your ass into gear," he whispered, his hands on his hips, squaring against her and not allowing her to step around him.

This is not you Garrity.

I don't know what you went through…I can't imagine. He didn't know the full story, just that there had been an accident. A terrible accident and she'd lost a lot. More than a lot. He wasn't even sure what all it was she lost, because even Buddy didn't know.

There was someone with her.

He died.

Tim glanced around the small living room; there were no photos, but there were sunspots on the walls where photos had been hanging, the paint lightened around the frames. He wondered what she'd done with those photos.

His eyes lifted back to her. She was just standing there, looking very tiny in her giant sweatshirt and pajama pants. "You should get a shower or something," he whispered, stepping aside to allow her to pass him.

Which she did, without saying a word, going up the stairs.

I'm not doing this.

This is ridiculous.

He grabbed his phone, striding towards the front door and slamming it behind him, heading to his car. Buddy's voicemail sounded a second later. "I can't do this, you didn't tell me how bad she was Mr. Garrity! This is something for like…a doctor a professional or something, but not me. I'm not doing this." He hung up, opening his truck door and making a move to climb inside.

What are you doing Riggins?

He dropped his foot back to the ground, glancing over his shoulder at the white bungalow. I was never that bad, a voice told him. I'm still not that bad, but…he sighed hard, closing his truck door, leaning against it, still looking at the house. I needed help. Tyra helped me. Helped me get over my…whatever it was he felt. Bitterness and rage, he supposed.

Did she want to do that? Probably not. She'd come back to see family and she'd ended up backtracking for a couple of weeks…being a pseudo-shrink to him for a bit.

Would Tyra have just…left like that? Too hard, nope, I'm not doing it? No. She didn't.

Buddy told him for a reason.

Not Jason. Not her sister. Not even Mrs. Taylor anyone else who probably had more experience to handle something like this.'

_You think I want to ask you this Tim Riggins? I hate admitting it, but you are the only one she is going to listen to, I hate to admit it son, but it's true_.

Me.

Why me? What could I do?

He pushed away from the truck, returning to the house.

Guess he was going to find out.


	2. Half-broken hearted to sever for years

**A/N**: I figured I'd just put it out there that this is a super-duper angsty fic. Like, the last three I've done have been angsty, but this is probably the worst of all those and this chapter is a good indicator. Plus, Lyla is very...she's out of character a bit because I wanted to write her in a position she's never been in before. She becomes more Lyla later on (hopefully). The titles are also all quotes from Lord Byron poems and there's a reason for that, later on. Enjoy!

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_**2. Half broken-hearted to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss**_

Tim closed the front door behind him, dropping his phone and keys on the little table next to the door. First things first.

Get her a damn shower, it smelled like a sewer.

He walked upstairs, ignoring the closed doors at the end of the hall and stepping into the open door, the blinds all shut in this one as well, bits of sunlight creeping in around the corners.

She sat on the floor, half undressed, holding onto a t-shirt, tears tracking down her cheeks, cradling her hurt arm against her. "No," she sobbed when he leaned down to pick her up, taking the shirt from her. "No, no, Tim…stop it! Please!"

Nope. Not gonna' do it. He set the shirt down on the bed; it clearly meant something to her. "Come on Garrity," he whispered, helping her into the bathroom. He sat her down on the edge of the bathtub, leaning down and removing her socks and helping her with the arm brace.

He peered down at her arm once the brace was removed. There were ugly scars on her shoulder, around her neck. The arm seemed thinner than her other one, but if she'd broken it and it had been wrapped up for so long, that made sense. He set the brace aside, glancing at her, wondering what else he should do.

She rolled her eyes and stripped down, glaring at him. He turned, his eyes closed, shaking his head slightly. Seriously Garrity? "Stop acting like a little girl," she snapped. "Not like you haven't seen it before."

"It's different now," he said over his shoulder, hearing her tug the shower curtain closed. Water sprayed against the plastic curtain and porcelain a second later. He waited, to see if she needed anything, but she said nothing, so he left the bathroom, closing the door to a crack in case she did need him.

Okay, second thing…clean up. Not that he was much good in that area, but well, it had to be done, the smell was making his stomach turn.

He stepped back into the bedroom, looking around. This was more of a sty than the rest of the house. Clothes were everywhere. All of them probably dirty. There were boxes pushed into a corner. Damn Garrity, I'm sorry, he thought, reaching for the t-shirt and pulling it open, looking at it.

It was a Vanderbilt football t-shirt. He folded it up carefully, setting it down on the dresser. Dust seemed to float up the minute he disturbed some of the effects pushed up against the mirror. There was a photo that had been turned around. Huh.

Tim reached for it, turning it around and looking down at the picture of Lyla with a tall, rather geeky looking, guy. He was wearing the Vanderbilt football shirt. There was a sparkly diamond ring on Lyla's left hand and she was beaming.

I'm sorry Garrity, he immediately thought, closing his eyes briefly and turning the photo back around. He dropped his hands to his side. Seriously though, what was he doing here? How was he, the ex-boyfriend, supposed to help her get over…her fiancé?

He stepped aside, leaving the bedroom and going down the hall. There were two bedrooms across from each other. Probably the size of closets, if the tiny size of her bedroom was any indication. He tried the doorknob on one of them, pushing it open and seeing a study of some sort.

It clearly was his.

I feel like I'm stepping on hallowed ground or something, Tim thought, immediately closing the door. He didn't want to snoop, but if he was supposed to help her, he had to figure out what the hell went on and Buddy didn't give him crap to work with. Just said that there had been…

He sighed.

Buddy told him a few months ago that Lyla had been in a terrible accident, but Tim couldn't get much out of him then. He'd been seeing Tyra, who had demanded of it from her mother, who got it out of Buddy. Tyra reported that Lyla and her fiancé had been in an accident and they'd been assaulted or something. He'd been killed and she was hurt, but that was all Angela could get out of Buddy.

There was something else, something Buddy wasn't telling people, if he knew at all. Tim was sure he did. Buddy couldn't lie very well about things that weren't related to football. He'd been ducking his head, mumbling, and being evasive when he'd tried to find out what also happened.

He hadn't gone to the funeral, he didn't think it would help. Three months later, something had happened in that incident that had torn Lyla to shreds, something that had turned her into this…this person he didn't recognize.

Old Lyla would never be like this.

Something was bad, something was wrong, and Buddy thought that only he could help her out of her depression.

What else happened, he wondered, to make her lose her job, basically and all the injuries she had? He reached for the doorknob to the other bedroom, slowly cracking it open.

Oh my God.

Tim snapped the door shut, his eyes closing tight. He took a few deep breaths, pushing the door open a little further, peering into the small room. He stared at the emptiness; it was void of anything but a single piece of furniture.

A crib.

Shit.

Garrity.

There was a loud thump from the bedroom, slamming into his thoughts. "Lyla?" he called out, pushing away from the door and running into the bedroom, shoving the door open into the bathroom and whipping the curtains back, forgetting any sense of propriety.

Lyla was on the floor of the bathtub, sobbing, the water pouring over her like buckets. She heaved another sob, leaning forward, her words almost inaudible. "He's gone," she sobbed, looking up, shaking her head again. "He's gone."

Oh God, Garrity.

I should have realized it was this bad, he thought, frowning harder. No wonder Buddy didn't want to be the one to come here.

"Come here," he whispered, turning off the water and reaching for a big towel, wrapping it around her. He tightened his grip at the edges of the towel, his heart thudding against his ribs, staring into her dark eyes.

They were so empty. So sad.

What can I say?

He nodded slowly, whispering. "Yes, he's gone, but…"

But what, Riggins? There were other guys out there? I'm here? He figured both of those statements would have her rolling on the floor in pain.

She shook her head quickly. "Not Michael," she mumbled.

Michael, that was the guy's name. Right.

Lyla tried to stand, but couldn't, she was too weak. And skinny. He took in her collarbone poking out of her skin and the muscles tight over her arms. Skeletal, that's what she looked like. She lifted her face up to his, shaking her head slightly. "John," she whispered, wiping at her eyes, hiccupping. She stared up at him, shaking her head again. "John's not here."

Her hand dropped to her stomach and then fell to her side. Something seemed to click her out of whatever triggered this fall and she stepped out of the tub, walking by him. "I'm fine," she called. "You can go away."

Oh hell no I'm not going away.

In fact…

The decision came swiftly, but Tim knew it would be best.

This place was a morgue. A tomb. She was living in a tomb, with whatever was left of her fiancé and…and her son. He walked out of the bathroom, grabbing a few clothes for her to wear from the dresser, tossing them at her. He pointed to the closet. "Get a bag," he ordered.

Lyla cocked her head, sitting on the bed, soaking wet and dripping, her hand still clutched around the towel, while her right arm remained cradled against her chest. "Why?" she whispered. It sounded like a frog croaking. Tim half expected bubbles or dust to come out when she spoke.

He took her in, sitting there, her cheeks sallow and drawn and her hair stringy around her face, even though he hoped she'd washed it. Maybe she hadn't, he wasn't sure she could think that clearly. She just sat there, alone and…and going through something truly awful.

Like she was dead.

She was a mummy.

Mummies just continued to decay. Fall apart to dust. He couldn't let that happen.

He stepped over to her closet and pushed it open, reaching down to grab a patterned quilted duffel bag, starting to fill it with clothes that looked clean. "I need underwear," she whispered, watching him move around.

"Where is it?"

"I don't know."

I'll find it. He managed to locate most of her clean clothing, removing some for her to wear now and placing the rest in the bag, along with a brush and some other assorted crap he located.

He set the bag by the door, turning around and seeing her standing there with the towel around her, holding the jeans he'd set out for her. She looked at them like she didn't know what to do with them.

Good God Garrity, he thought again, stepping towards her slowly and reaching for the jeans. "Do you want me to help you?" he whispered, looking down at her small, childish expression.

What the hell happened to you Lyla, he thought. His brow wrinkled and he reached for the towel, slowly pulling it away. She stood there and carefully slipped her arm into the shirt he'd found, turning as he wrapped it around her. "You need help?" he asked, his voice cracking as she reached for the buttons.

She shook her head quickly. "No," she whispered. She dressed without a word, while he waited for her at the door. She shrugged, her face impassive. "What are we doing Tim?"

He sighed hard. I'm going to try to help you. Might make it worse, but…he wasn't sure it could really get worse. "You need out of this house," he said, clearly. He picked up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Get a few more things and clean up a bit. I'll be downstairs."

About an hour or so later, he had thrown out everything in the fridge, the sink, and in the kitchen, cleaning it up as best as he could so she wouldn't have creatures living there when she came back. He unplugged electronics and lamps and cleaned up the dishes, putting them all away.

It didn't take long, because the house was so small, but he'd even sort of placed it in a semblance of order. He didn't quite know what to do with the dirty clothes and towels, so he just shoved them into the laundry room and closed the door.

Okay, that was done.

Now for the patient, he thought, going into the living room.

She was sitting on the couch, writing slowly in the hardcover book. He took a moment to just watch her. The tortured expression she'd had on earlier was gone, replaced with a much more passive, serene appearance. Her arm was in the brace again, cradled against her while she wrote slowly, the pen moving across the blank page.

What are you writing, he wondered, although he was quite sure it was personal. Maybe he didn't want to know. He cleared his throat, breaking her concentration and forcing her eyes up to his. She looked annoyed. He nodded to the door. "I think we should go now."

"Where are we going?" she asked, not moving from the couch.

He shrugged. "My house."

Lyla just stared at him. She sighed, shaking her head. "No." It was very childish. No. Like his nephews when they didn't get their way. Or were told they had to do something they didn't want to do. No. I won't go.

So he'd play it like he would with them.

"No?" he repeated.

"Nope, I'm not going anywhere," she said, her voice chirpy and pert. Almost…happy. Her eyes sparkled when she turned her head, peering up at him, smiling. Almost…normal. Other than the darkness that seemed to seep into her look after a moment. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my house. I'm not leaving."

He ran his tongue over his teeth. Okay. Two can play this game. He strode over, taking her book from her and snapping the pen from her fingers in one move, holding them up.

She dropped her jaw, staring. "Give it back," she demanded, a second later.

"No."

"No?" she echoed.

He closed the book, holding it to his chest, shaking his head, replying with a curt "No."

"It's mine. Give it back."

"No, I won't. I'm going to take it with me." He grabbed her bag as well as another he'd packed with some more things for her, taking them out of the house and to his truck, setting them in the back. He kept the book, turning around and seeing her on the doorstep, still staring at him.

Tim nodded to the house. "Get your things you need. We're not going to stay here, you're coming back to Texas."

"I don't want to go back to Texas!" she shouted.

"Well too damn bad! Get in the truck Garrity!"

She let out a yell of frustration, turning and storming back into the house. For a moment, Tim wondered if he'd gone too far taking the book. She was clearly damaged emotionally; maybe he'd broken something. He frowned, hoping he wouldn't have to go in and take a knife from her or something, when she left the house, her feet now in shoes and holding a large tote bag, full of stuff.

After a second of locking the door, she went around to the other side of the truck, also holding a pale yellow baby quilt, setting it between them and climbing up beside him. She shoved on a pair of sunglasses, turning to look out the window. "Go," she mumbled.

Tim glanced at the inside of the tote bag. There were a few photographs in frames and several little orange bottles stuffed at the top. He lifted his eyes back to her. "You want anything else from in there?"

Lyla turned to look back at the bungalow. She shrugged, whispering. "You can burn it to the ground if you want, I really don't care anymore."

Well that won't happen, but it's nice to know how you feel.

He backed out of the drive and started down the street. He cleared his throat. This was going to be a long drive. "We can probably make it to Arkansas tonight…stay maybe across the border, that okay?"

"This is your life Tim, I'm living in it."

No Garrity, this is your life, and I am trying to help it, although hell if I know why.

She continued to stare out the window; her head slumped on her hand. After a moment, she broke the silence, whispering. "Why are you doing this Tim?" She rotated her head slightly, glancing sideways in his direction. Her voice cracked again. "You don't need me, I left you."

I don't know why I'm doing this, but…I can hazard a guess. He shrugged a shoulder, keeping his eye on the road, making his way to the highway. He merged on, shaking his head. "Because your dad was worried, said he thought I would be the only one who could help…" He closed his mouth. Probably wouldn't be good to bring up the reason why.

"And well…because I want to help you Lyla. You're still…" He sighed. He whispered. "You're still very important to me."

I still love you, but I'd never say that.

Lyla turned to look out the window. Several minutes later, her small voice broke the silence and also broke his heart.

"You can't fix me Tim. You can't put shattered pieces back together."

He closed his eyes briefly, before returning them to the road. He'd thought that about himself once upon a time ago. Seemed like it was possible, if someone put their mind to it and helped.

Her voice broke again, breathy and small. "You can't fix something that doesn't want to be fixed."

And I thought that once upon a time ago too.

Tim sighed.

At least he could try.

And that was more than he'd ever thought he was capable of doing.


	3. The dew of the morning

_**3. The dew of the morning sunk chill on my brow- it felt like the warning of what I feel now**_

I thought that prison was bad.

Traveling with an intensely broken person was ranking up there with some of the worst things Tim had done or witnessed in his life.

He'd pulled over, later that evening, in a roadside motel in Arkansas, outside of Little Rock, thinking that it would be a good stopping point. His eyes were growing tired and he wasn't sure he could stay awake through the night, although he would have preferred driving until he hit Dillon.

That was probably another day and a half's drive away.

He left her in the car, when he went in to get the keys to the room, hoping he could at least get her over to the diner next door to get some food into her, when he came back to the truck and found her missing.

Great, he thought, turning around, searching.

How far could she have gone, it wasn't like he was in there for very long. Tim wandered around the property for a few minutes, finally locating her near a drained pool, sitting on the edge, looking over the side. "Lyla," he called, approaching her slowly.

"I should just jump in."

No, you really shouldn't. He stood behind her, glancing into the dirty and stained concrete. It was probably only about eight feet deep. He shrugged, whispering. "You'll probably just break your neck or a couple other bones."

"Not if I go headfirst."

Lyla, what the hell. This is so not you. Not that Tim pretended to know the Lyla Garrity sitting in front of him from the one who got on a bus driving away to Tennessee six years ago.

Six years. Been awhile.

He slowly went to her, sitting beside her and slinging his legs over the side of the pool. The book she'd been carting with her was at her hand. He nodded towards it, whispering. "What do you write?"

"Things," she answered, still looking down at the drain. She blinked a couple of times, lifting her face, turning her head slowly towards him. Her dark eyes, normally so vibrant, were dull and sunken. She reached to push her hair out of her face, shaking her head, breathing deep for a few seconds. "I don't know how to stop feeling like this."

Feeling like your world was over, that you had no purpose, and you were just wandering through some black hole? Yeah, he knew what that was like. Tim shrugged. "You just stop. One day you just stop."

"What do you know about loss?"

She shook her head, whispering, her voice hissing at him, angry all of a sudden, a complete mood shift from the melancholia a moment before. "You went to prison Tim. Big deal. You gave up a future. I don't feel sorry for you because you chose to do something stupid with your life when you had everything in front of you. I tried. I tried for almost three years and you know what?" She barked out a laugh, still staring at him, her eyes suddenly seeming slightly vibrant, a small fire behind them. "I was done wasting my life on you. I heard Tyra came back, slept with you a few times, guess she felt sorry too and I guess you tried to drag her down as well. Good luck to you both. Now let me the fuck alone."

She jumped to her feet, storming off towards the truck.

Tim sat there, stunned.

What the hell?

Oh hell no, he thought for a second, scrambling up, intent on storming after her, but he froze. Maybe she was right. He did give up the scholarship, a future…one he didn't want, but he still gave it up. He was the one who chose to give a future to Billy and Stevie and take Billy's place in jail. And he was the one who wanted Tyra to stay with him, the same as he'd asked Lyla to stay. She'd wisely not said anything, just like Lyla, but she hadn't been as blunt about it as Lyla.

Maybe Garrity had a point.

She's not speaking from a good place, he thought, making excuses for her. She's speaking from somewhere dark and twisted. He knew that place. It really, really sucked being in that place.

Very slowly, he walked towards the truck, the key to the room in his hand. He opened the door, finding her curled in the passenger seat, the blanket around her shoulders. "No," she cried when he slipped his arms underneath her, lifting her up against his chest. She shook her head. "Tim, stop…please just let me be."

I can't do that.

He carried her to the room, opening the door one-handed and sighed at the double bed in the center of the room. Damn, he forgot to specify two beds. He'd sleep in the chair, he figured, setting her down on the bed and covering her shoulders the with the baby blanket.

A few minutes later, he returned with her bag of clothes and his backpack, setting them down on the floor, glancing to her on the bed. She was looking at him, from her side, her hand beneath her cheek. He sighed, stepping over and removing her shoes and socks.

"Please don't do this," she whispered.

"No."

She closed her eyes; tears trickling down her face. "Tim, I can't do this with you again. I really, really don't think I can do it."

"I'm not doing this because of anything like that." The fact you think that is kind of upsetting. He lifted her head up a little, setting it on the pillows. Out of…hell, he didn't know, nostalgia? He stroked her hair back from her face, draping it back over her shoulder, his fingertips brushing at her slim neck.

At the scars that made their way over her shoulder.

Lyla closed her eyes, breathing deep. He circled his finger over the nastiest part, like someone tried to slit it. She sighed, mumbling into the pillow, almost lucid. "That's where my artery was cut."

God, Garrity, he thought, not for the first time. Probably the hundredth in the last 24 hours.

"They had to sew it back together," she mumbled, shaking her head, whispering. "The paramedic had his hand in it for like an hour." She sighed again, mumbling. "I thought I was going to die. I think I did. Twice."

Tim closed his eyes, unsure what he was expected to say to that.

"Death was not what I thought," she continued, sighing again, shaking her head slightly on the pillow. She shifted, holding the blanket tighter around her shoulders, whispering. "It wasn't beautiful, it was dark. I didn't like it. I wanted to come back, so I did. Twice."

Her voice faded, as she drifted to sleep. "I'm sorry I said those things…you know more of loss than me."

Not that kind of loss.

He closed his eyes, whispering. "You were right."

I didn't lose my fiancé or my child, I didn't lose my job and my life, and I didn't suffer a complete and utter nervous breakdown.

Tim brushed his knuckles across her face. She turned her head, settling into his lap almost. He hit his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. Guess he'd be sleeping on the bed that night. He glanced sideways at the book she was always writing in.

He wouldn't pry.

Although he was curious.

She shifted again, her hand falling to her stomach. He glanced down, seeing her shirt had pulled up slightly. He looked at her, seeing she was fast asleep and then down to her shirt, reaching to slowly push it up, his hand smoothing over her skin.

There was a very thin pink scar across her midsection, curving upward. He closed his eyes, not wanting to think of the implications of what it meant. Her fingertips curved into her stomach a little tighter and her brow wrinkled, frustrated, almost.

A whimper escaped her lips.

You have nightmares too.

Of course she would.

He slipped from beneath her, going to her bag, removing some of the pill bottles, glancing at the labels. He finally found one he recognized, knowing what it was for and went into the bathroom, filling a plastic glass with water, returning to the bed. "Here," he mumbled, gently waking her out of the sleep.

Barely awake, she reached for the pill and placed it between her lips, taking a few sips of water and falling back onto the bed. She sighed, mumbling. "Thank you."

Yeah, I do what I can, drugging you to sleep.

Tim took up a post in the chair, stretching his feet out to the edge of the bed. He ignored the book beside him, watching her. He wasn't going to sleep much that night, he knew it, and so he reached for his cell phone.

He hated the damn thing; the only reason he'd had to get it was so Billy could find him when he needed him, out on the land, since he couldn't get a landline out there just yet. Too expensive or something. He also needed it for work.

Work.

The foreman was a good guy, he'd been showing him the ropes lately and he respected how he'd kind of cleaned himself up from troubled teenager to felon to productive citizen, so he'd given him a few weeks off as payment. He'd receive a minimal paycheck, definitely not as big as he'd been receiving as he worked longer hours on the sites. He'd have preferred working freelance, but the gig with the contracting company was too good to pass up, especially in his situation. It had something called…benefits.

Ugh, a productive member of society. He was so sick of hearing people say that when he told them he had a steady job with benefits and a decent paycheck.

And six weeks off, for good behavior, literally.

He couldn't take the entire six weeks. He had to hope that in six weeks he could get Lyla to be at least self-sufficient. He couldn't believe Buddy just left her, after the funeral.

In fact…

He dialed Buddy, lifting the phone to his ear, waiting for it to pick up. A moment later, he heard Buddy's bleary voice; he'd obviously woken him up. "Tim? Where are you, son?" he yawned.

Tim closed his eyes, setting his jaw, and speaking quietly so as not to wake Lyla. "I'm sitting in Little Rock, Arkansas, with Lyla. How come you didn't tell me it was this bad?"

"I didn't know Tim. I thought she was fine after the funeral, she said she'd go back to work and…"

"And clearly she didn't."

"Tim, I just…she said she'd go to church, reflect, you know Lyla."

Not with something like this. All the pain she'd had to endure in her life she'd always been stoic and she'd found ways to cope with it, whether they were healthy or not. Cheating on your boyfriend with his best friend probably wasn't the best way to cope with having said boyfriend in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Or joining a megachurch to deal with the dissolution of your family.

He was really surprised that Lyla had kind of…lost her faith. That's where she usually drew her greatest strength. She was one of those truly kind people who honestly believed in good. Who tried to be better for it.

Maybe this time she didn't think it would help.

And that was very sad.

And Buddy…geez, Buddy, you are a shit father, not that I'm one to judge, Tim thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head. You should have been on this a lot sooner than now. "I'm bringing her back to Texas."

For some reason he thought he would encounter resistance, but Buddy earnestly agreed. "Good thinking Tim, I'll get her room ready…"

"No," he interrupted, whispering. "She's staying with me." Not that he had much of a guest room, but Becky had kind of made it a mission to "woman-fy" his house. Same with Mindy.

"Tim Riggins, I don't think…"

No Buddy, you don't think. "Mr. Garrity," he said, his voice firm, but soft. Like he kind of was in general. "Lyla is coming to the house to stay with me. She needs a different place. Somewhere new." And she'd never seen the house. Even the couple times she'd been back to Dillon, they'd avoided each other.

He didn't want a repeat of the last time, he wasn't sure he could handle it.

She needs to be somewhere…peaceful.

Somewhere, where I can help her.

After a few minutes of assuring Buddy about Lyla's condition, which really wasn't something to assure anyone on, he disconnected. Tim tossed the phone aside, closing his eyes and stretching back in the uncomfortable chair.

A couple of hours later, he opened his eyes and found Lyla awake, sitting on the bed Indian-style, writing in her book. He wondered if they shouldn't just go on the road right now. Might be easier for both of them.

"You talk in your sleep, you've never done that," Lyla said, not looking up from her writing. She paused the pen on the page, her voice quiet. "You're different."

"I am different."

Lyla nodded, continuing to write again, and speaking. "You said something about not going. Where are you not going Tim?"

To jail. The dreams were usually the same. He was being dragged off and Billy was laughing at him. Tyra was crying and so was Mindy. Then there was Stevie, who was just a baby in the dreams, and then he was being pushed into the cell, yelling that it wasn't his fault. Lyla or Six sometimes appeared, or Coach, standing there looking sad and telling him 'I told you so.' Then he'd just keep repeating, I'm not going, and he always would wake up yelling.

Even five years later.

He sighed. This isn't about me, Garrity. This is about you. "Doesn't matter," he answered, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward over his knees. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "You hungry?"

"No."

Who cares? He got up, taking the keys and going to the door. Opening it up, he leaned against it, looking over his shoulder at her. "You going to be here when I come back?"

Lyla looked up, a small smile on her lips. "Where would I go?" she whispered.

Good point.

He went next door to the diner and ordered some fries and a couple burgers, returning to the bedroom, where Lyla was now watching TV. It was like the middle of the damn night now. He set the food on the bed, opening up the containers, offering her a fry.

She wrinkled her nose. "No." Flicked the channel.

"Eat it."

"No." Flicked to another channel.

Each time he tried to offer her food, she ignored him and flicked the channel.

He finally had it.

Tim grabbed the remote, throwing it across the room, where it broke into two pieces. He set the food in her lap, pointing his finger at it. "Eat."

Lyla's nostrils flared, her eyes wide. "I was watching that."

He looked at the program, which was an infomercial. "No, you weren't," he replied, jabbing his finger back at the food, like she was Stevie and wouldn't eat green beans. "Eat the food Garrity. You'll feel better."

"I don't eat meat anymore."

"I don't really give a shit what you don't eat, you're eating this."

"You never swore before."

"Yeah, neither did you," he snapped.

They squared off for a few minutes, not saying anything. I'm not going to baby you, Lyla. That's the problem. You need tough love now, he thought, waiting for her to start eating.

After a second, she finally gave in, taking a few bites of a French fry. She finished it and made a face, but kept eating. Eventually, she'd had about half the burger and most of the fries. He gave her one of the two chocolate milkshakes he'd gotten, even though he had no real intention of drinking his.

"I want the cherry," she said, biting into hers and throwing the stem aside. She reached over and took his, like she had in the past, eating it. He didn't like cherries. Too sweet.

He smiled a little, pushing the milkshake towards her across the table, where they were now seated. "So drink this one too. I don't want it."

Lyla held the cherry stem in her fingers, her eyes falling to his again. He frowned. "What are you doing?"

She smiled. "Remember what I could do?" She slipped the stem between her lips, her tongue moving around provocatively. It wasn't doing anything to him, if that was her intention, Tim thought, watching. He was simply curious to see if she could still do it.

A moment later, she stuck her tongue out, the stem now turned into a knot. He reached over and picked it up, putting it into his mouth. Something they used to do. It always grossed out Jason, which was kind of its intention. A second later, he pursed his lips, the stem now undone.

Lyla arched an eyebrow. "That's not very nice."

"Yeah well, right now, neither are you." He gathered the trash, tossing it in the bin near the door, nodding to the bed. She still had that sleeping pill coursing through her veins. It was starting to show, her eyelids drooping a bit. "Go back to sleep."

"Come with me."

"No."

She stood up, jutting her hips towards him, her fingers slipping down into his hands as she leaned forward, her nose brushing his. "Come with me Tim," she cooed, smiling against his lips. "This is what you want, right? Me?"

Yeah, I want the real Lyla Garrity. Not this broken down mess of a person who didn't know which end of the world was the right one.

And I thought prison was bad, he thought again, standing up and turning her around, pushing her back towards the bed. "Lie down, go to bed. You need sleep."

"I'm fine." She yawned.

Another moment passed, with her lying on the bed and him in the chair. She shook her head, whispering. "I don't know what I'm doing Tim."

Neither do I.

He sighed. He'd figure it out when they got to Texas.

"Go to sleep," he whispered.

She did as she was told, but he didn't, remaining awake for the rest of the night.


	4. Thy vows are all broken

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! Enjoy :)

* * *

_**4. The vows are all broken, and light is thy fame**_

I feel at home now, Tim thought, driving down the highway towards his land, a small smile on his face, glad that they were at least back in the neighborhood again. After the night in Little Rock, he'd just driven as far and as fast as he could get, through East Texas and stopping just for a few hours to recharge at a rest stop near Dallas before he started driving again.

And now they were here.

"I have to stop at the store and get some things, you going to be okay in here?" he asked, glancing at Lyla, as he pulled into town, driving towards the grocery store. He finally stopped in the parking lot, nodding to a couple of people who recognized the truck and waved hello. He focused his attention on Lyla.

Last thing he needed was for her to have another breakdown in the parking lot of a grocery store. He waited for a response from her, but she just stared out the windshield, her sunglasses hiding her reaction from him. He sighed. "Lyla, I'm not leaving until you say something."

"I can't believe I'm in Dillon again," she mumbled, opening up the door and climbing out, walking around the front of the truck towards the store.

Guess she was coming with him.

He jumped out, following after her, half-wanting a leash or something to make sure she didn't wander off like she was a toddler. He dropped the ear of his sunglasses in the V of his black t-shirt, reaching around her for a basket, holding it up. "You want to help get some things?"

I feel like I am talking to a toddler.

In some ways that's what she reminded him of. A toddler mind in a grown-up body, unable to control her words and emotions.

Lyla carefully picked up a basket, walking with him. She ignored some of the stares from people when they recognized her, reaching for produce and a couple of other things. Tim kept his eye on her as he grabbed a few things, essentials. Steak, beer, that sort of thing.

He was in the cereal aisle knocking Lucky Charms into his basket when he heard someone yell "Lyla Garrity!" Uh-oh. He hurried around the corner, seeing former Mayor Rodelle cornering her.

And he saw the look in Lyla's eyes.

Like a deer in headlights.

Don't, he thought, although he wasn't sure what she would do. Not scream or anything, it wasn't like she was a complete basketcase. He walked towards them, putting a smile on his face. "Mayor Rodelle," he greeted her, taking a deep breath and glancing at Lyla. "You okay Garrity?"

"Tim Riggins! I had no idea that you guys…" Rodelle glanced between the both of them, her eyes widening. She smirked, clearly thinking she understood. "Ah, I see."

"No you don't see," Lyla snapped, glaring at her. She smiled a little, shrugging. "I'm not screwing him." She smiled sweetly at both of their shocked expressions. "Probably the only girl in Dillon who isn't, right Tim?" She walked by him, with a mumbled 'excuse me' and going down the aisle, dropping a bag of pretzels into her basket, going around the corner.

Ah…Tim flashed a quick smile. "She's in town for a few weeks," he said, his voice even. He shrugged. "She's been through a lot." That's all you get, because he could already see the wheels working in Rodelle's mind to get some gossip. He smiled again. "Excuse me, I better go find her. Have a nice day!"

He ran around the corner, where Lyla was inspecting liquor. "No," he advised, putting back a bottle of rum.

"You have beer."

"Because I'm Tim Riggins."

"You say that like it's a good thing," Lyla replied with a wry smile, walking around him and to the checkout. She paused at the end of the aisle, calling over her shoulder. "Are you coming or not?"

Tim sighed, getting his basket off the floor and going with her, dumping everything onto the conveyor belt. Lyla reached into her pocket, to remove some money, but he stilled her hand, smiling down at her. "I got it," he whispered.

"Tim I'm not poor." She ran her tongue over her teeth, not saying anything. Tim wondered if that was a lie.

Yeah, I'm not poor either, but still, he thought, paying for the groceries and handing her a couple of bags. He frowned at some of the things in hers. "Oreos and peanut butter?"

"They're good together." She walked out of the store, ignoring more stares when he went after her. She sighed, going towards the truck. "What is it with this town? A woman can't walk with a man in the store without people thinking we're screwing?"

Language, Garrity, he thought like saying, but he didn't. He shrugged. "People know you. People know me. People know us. It's only logical."

"You been watching Star Trek again?"

I do not watch Star Trek, he immediately thought, shooting her a look, a smile flirting on his lips. He shrugged. "That was one time."

"You quoted Spock the entire weekend we were in San Antonio together," she said, shrugging a shoulder and climbing up into the front seat, waiting a moment before he slid in next to her. Her voice was faraway. "I think people think I'm crazy. They probably know."

They don't know anything and they never have, he thought, glancing at a couple people pointing in their direction. "People around this town live for gossip Lyla. It's just the way it is, but…where we're going you don't need to deal with that."

"Your house?" she laughed. She shook her head, smiling. "Yeah, sure, Lyla Garrity returning to Dillon and staying with Tim Riggins. Sure. Women don't stay with Tim Riggins unless you're fuc…"

"Stop it," he snapped, not liking the language coming from her mouth. It was so uncharacteristic. He also hated that that's what she thought of him now. Not that it wasn't too far from the truth, which upset him a little, but…he shook his head quickly, turning the engine on and glancing sideways at her again. "Acting like a badass isn't flattering on you."

Her eyes narrowed, a smile tugging a little in the corner of her mouth. "Can't stand foul language Tim?"

"From you? No."

Someone across from them pointed at her. Lyla waved, rolling down the window and shouting out. "Look at the crazy lady! That's me!"

Tim rolled his eyes, turning the truck out of the parking lot before they got into an altercation. The town probably knew about her situation, although Buddy had kept news of the accident, as he called it, private, so maybe not the whole thing. Of course they'd gossip about it and turn it into something inaccurate.

He really wanted to know more; nothing about it was in the news and Buddy didn't talk. Lyla certainly wouldn't tell him until she was prepared. Whatever happened, the details of it, it was not normal. It was rare. Senseless act of violence.

He drove out of Dillon, heading west, towards his property. "They know you were hurt and you were in an accident, that's probably the extent of it. Besides, it doesn't matter what they think."

Lyla shoved her sunglasses back on her nose. "How much farther?" she mumbled, touching her fingertips to her head, leaning against the window. Her arm wrapped around her book, tugging it close.

"Not far."

"You live in a shack or something?"

He chuckled, thinking of his house. "Not quite," he whispered, keeping his mouth closed on the matter, driving a little faster over a hill, trying to hurry the extra fifteen miles from Dillon where his land was located.

It took several more minutes, before he was pulling into the driveway, his truck rumbling up to beside the house. He unbuckled his seatbelt, glancing sideways at her face. He couldn't tell what was going on beneath the glasses, but he saw her mouth fall open a little. "Welcome to Texas," he whispered, climbing out of the truck, feeling his feet almost weep at being back on the land again. He hated driving that far of a distance from Dillon.

He grabbed their bags, carrying them up to the front porch, setting them outside the front door, and watching Lyla as she slowly walked away from the truck, away from the house to look out at the land. It was later in the day, the sun starting to fall from the middle of the sky.

The clouds were giving the sun a strange red glow, casting it over everything. It looked like it was all on fire, which he kind of liked. He raked his hand through his hair, hopping off the porch; he still had to put stairs on the north and south sides; he'd made sure that they were there on the east and west sides, so he could look out his front window in the morning and see the sunrise and look out his back window at night and see the sunset.

He walked slowly towards her, his hands in his pockets. A light breeze pushed her hair from her face. Her arms wrapped around her tight, still focused on the view. The rolling hills and the trees and his pond off in the distance. He still wanted to build a dock, but he hadn't done that yet.

"It's beautiful," Lyla whispered. She turned around and looked up at the house. It was two-story, with a stone back he'd finally finished. He had a dark blue front door and shutters on the windows around the back and upstairs.

Nodding towards the house, Tim led her back up to the front door, stepping around the bags into the front hall, the stairs jutting up about five feet into the foyer. She looked up them and around, her eyes wide and curious.

Which was what he wanted, he thought, pointing towards the kitchen; it was an open floor plan, a giant circle around the staircase, which he'd left open in the back, so you could see through to the living room when you got to the first landing. "That's the kitchen and…the living room…and this is the front room, kind of like an office, I guess and right here is just…a room I guess." He placed his hands on his hips, nodding towards the kitchen. "Laundry room is right off the kitchen and there's a bathroom right here," he said, opening up a door beneath the stairs.

He smiled, pointing upstairs. "Come on."

Lyla silently went ahead, blazing the way, looking around the banister and peering into the first room, which was one of the guest rooms he'd made up for the boys, when they came to visit. He pointed to the two double doors at the end of the hall. "Ah, that's my room…"

She opened the doors, disappearing inside. He sighed, following. Tim leaned against the frame, watching as she walked in a circle around the largest room in the house, with the wall of windows that he'd put in to get the views from the morning and night. His bed was right in the center of it all and he had the bathroom to one side and a sitting area, more like a place for all his junk in the other.

Lyla stopped in front of one of the two picture windows, staring out. "Wow," she whispered. She walked away from him and into the hall again, her feet squeaking as she inspected the guest bathroom and finally stopped in the guest bedroom.

"It's not much," he mumbled, seeing her going into the guest room. He'd painted it yellow for some reason, a really pale yellow, with white trim and Becky had gone hunting for stuff, finding a bed and linens and all that. There were even curtains.

Compared to his room, which was dark and somewhat gloomy unless he had the curtains open to get the sunlight in, this one was like sunshine. He hoped it would help her.

She sat on the queen-sized bed, with its old-fashioned iron headboard and the yellow quilt that Becky had found at an estate sale, if he remembered right. There were pictures of flowers on the walls. "I don't know what's with the flowers," he sighed, gesturing to them. He set his hand on the dresser next to the closet door. "You can put your clothes in here, if you want or just…live out of a suitcase, um…there's a closet in the bathroom with towels and sheets and stuff…just make yourself at home."

Home.

That's kind of what she needed right now.

Lyla looked up at him, her eyes wide. She realized where she was now, he thought, cocking his head slightly. She bit her lower lip, her eyes wavering with tears. "I…" she trembled, looking up again and at the window, shaking her head and standing, walking towards it.

Her shoulders lurched forward and she began to cry.

Tim stood in the doorway, watching her for a moment, until she turned around, her arms held out. That's what he was waiting for, he thought, walking towards her and wrapping her up into his, smoothing his hand over her hair.

"I miss them," she sobbed into his shoulder.

I know you miss them, probably more than you miss anything. You'd do anything to get them back. "I know," he replied.

She wiped at her eyes, stepping back, lifting her face to his. "I know you think I'm crazy…" she sniffled, using the back of her sleeve to wipe at her nose, her eyes still focused on his. She hiccupped. "I don't know if I am or not, but…I had a guy I was going to marry and a baby and then…then I woke up and I had nothing. Because someone didn't want me to have that."

"And maybe I'm…maybe I could be stronger or something, but I just…" Lyla sobbed, shaking her head again, her voice cracking so hard he had trouble understanding her around her tears. "I just can't keep doing it all the time! I can't keep being strong, it's never worked before, why should it work now? I just can't."

I know, he thought, shaking his head slightly. "You don't have to do it for me," he whispered. Believe me. You don't have to put up that front for me. He reached for her, pushing her hair from her face, framing it in his hands, whispering. "You lost…a lot. More than I know, Lyla…you need a break and…you can have that here."

She wiped at her eyes again, whispering, her eyebrows rising almost to her hairline. "You pretty much kidnapped me."

A smile pulled at the corner of his lip. Maybe. He shrugged. "You needed to leave Tennessee."

"I should have let my doctor know."

"You should have let your doctor know the pills aren't working," he whispered. That you shouldn't even need pills. What you need is fresh air and sunlight and something different. You need something to help you heal, not stall it.

And you need someone who has been there.

Lyla wiped her eyes again, before she closed them. "I want to go to sleep, please."

Please.

That tiny little word broke his heart.

He nodded, stepping aside, walking to the door, turning and seeing her crawl onto the bed, her eyes closing, exhausted. The entire drive she'd barely slept. She'd faked it, with her eyes closed and her head on the door or window. You need sleep. Real, uninterrupted, and unaided by drugs.

A moment later, she was asleep, her breathing rattling in her throat and nose a little. Tim walked over and picked up a blanket from a chair in the corner of the room, shaking it out and draping it over her. He closed the curtains, dimming the room somewhat, and left, closing the door behind him.

He went back to the porch and brought everything into the house, putting away the groceries and wondering why Lyla had bought some of the things she'd bought. Maybe she'd been wandering around in a stupor or something. He opened a package of licorice she'd thrown into her basket, pulling out one of the ropes and taking a bite, walking into his living room and crashing down onto his La-Z-Boy, kicking off his boots and kicking back, grabbing the remote to his massive flatscreen television set in the corner of the room.

My kind of night, too bad I didn't grab a beer while I was up.

He wanted to be lucid. Lyla's first night here, he didn't want to be…foggy.

Buddy should probably know she was in town now, but he didn't want to talk to him right now. Didn't want to talk to anyone. Billy, Mindy, or anyone.

So of course, his phone rang.

He removed it from his pocket, staring at the number, name, and photo. Tim closed his eyes, releasing a long breath, hitting 'ignore' and sending Tyra's call to voicemail.

And he turned up the volume a little on SportsCenter.

But not loud enough, because he was listening for the cry he knew he would hear soon.

About an hour later, he heard it, sobbing out down the stairs.

He ran up to the guest room, finding Lyla thrashing on the bed, screaming through her night terror. "It's okay," he said, over and over again, such a misnomer, but it was what was usually said in these types of moments. He pulled her into his arms and rocked with her, smoothing out her hair. "It's okay."

Lyla gripped him tightly, crying into his chest.

Tim, he sighed, continuing to stroke her hair and rock with her, like she was one of his baby nephews. Her cries tapered off, but his thoughts didn't.

What in the hell are you doing Tim, he thought, shaking his head. "It's okay," he whispered. For her or himself, he didn't know.


	5. In secret we met, in silence I grieve

_**5. In secret we met- In silence I grieve, that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive **_

Where am I?

It took a few seconds for her to orient herself, staring at a ceiling that was a bit higher than her slanted, tiny bungalow one at home. Or the yellow that seemed to be everywhere, rather than the pale blue walls to which she was accustomed. She swallowed the lump in her throat, slowly sitting up, but finding she couldn't, because there was an arm over her stomach.

Her empty stomach.

I should be eight months pregnant now. I should be weeks away from my due date. September 23, that was the due date. A week after her birthday.

My birthday is in a week.

She ran her hand over her face, turning her head and staring at Tim, who was fast asleep beside her, his hair over his eyes and his face partially buried in the pillow. The yellow pillow.

Why yellow?

It was like sunshine. Too much sunshine.

She sat up, slowly removing his arm from around her and slipping off the bed, hugging her arm against her. It wasn't hurt anymore. The doctor told her she was clinging to something on her that wasn't right; when in reality she was fine. You're healthy, Lyla. You're a healthy 25-year old woman.

You can have other children.

You're lucky to even be alive.

And your arm is fine.

The doctors all told her that, but she didn't believe them. I can have other children, but they won't be the first baby had. The one I felt. Moving around inside of me. It wouldn't be the baby she would have with Michael, a guy she loved with every fiber of her being. Who died on a sidewalk in Memphis.

On a rainy night.

She closed her eyes, trying not to think of it, or else she'd just fall apart again. Some days it was easy. Other days it was hard.

I lost my job.

Who cares?

Lyla walked out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. The sun had long set; the entire landscape plunged into darkness. The TV was going: ESPN. There was a light on over the stove. It was a very nice stove, even though it looked like it had never been used.

Her fingers itched.

She opened up cupboards and the pantry and the fridge, removing all that she'd bought earlier, starting to pour things into bowls, without bothering to measure. It wasn't hard for her; she'd basically done this every day her whole adolescent life. Until she figured things out.

Not really, until she had life thrown at her and she had to stop baking cupcakes and cookies, because there were other things that were more important.

I like Tim's house.

I like Tim's land.

"I am strong, I am smart, and I will recover," she mumbled out loud. Affirmations. What one of the psychiatrists told her to say, when she felt that depression. She rolled her eyes at that. Depressed? Of course she was depressed. In one evening she'd lost her fiancé and her child.

She poured milk into a bowl, taking a fork, rather than a whisk, because Tim didn't have one, and mixed everything briskly. "I am a strong, independent, and successful woman and I will recover from the death of my fiancé and baby to senseless acts of violence," she repeated. That was a big one, the one that her psychiatrists had used as an example.

Senseless acts of violence.

It made her agoraphobic, those first few weeks. She'd managed to venture beyond the house with help of her medication, until she quit taking it, because it made her feel like a lab rat. The Vicodin was much better. It made her sleep, where she didn't have to think about it.

Until she had the terrors.

Don't think about them.

Lyla took an ice cream scoop, removing globs of chocolate dough, smacking it onto the cookie sheet. She lifted her eyes to the fridge, continuing to smack batter on the sheet. When she finished, she shoved it into the oven, which had been pre-heating while she mixed everything.

She dumped all the bowls into the sink, walking over to the fridge and tugging it open, removing a bottle of beer. She cracked the cap, taking a sip and turning around, going into the living room.

"Tim's den," she spoke, continuing to talk aloud as she walked around. "Where Tim lives…I wonder what he watches." She flicked over from ESPN to the last channel, expecting porn or something, but finding that it was the History channel. Shock. Tim learning things?

Maybe she was underestimating the amount he'd changed.

She leaned back in the La-Z-Boy, tucking her feet beneath her and finding the old movie channel. It was _The Philadelphia Story_. One of her favorites. She sighed, watching as Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn sparred off together. It was another time.

I wish we lived in that time, she thought, watching the screen, and blanking out.

Until the buzzer went off on the stove.

Lyla stood, walking towards it, but finding that Tim had already removed the cookies. "Looks good," he said, dropping the dishtowel he'd used to remove them from the oven. He flicked one up with his finger, gingerly lifting it and breaking it in half. "Ow!"

"It was just in the 400 degree oven," she droned, walking over and inspecting his wound. It wasn't life-threatening. She picked up the half of the cookie that he'd plucked from the sheet, biting into it. It burned her tongue, but she didn't care.

"You're baking, that's good."

Don't say it like I just learned how to go fetch, she thought, shooting him a look. She went to the fridge and removed a carton of milk. She poured some into a glass; taking a sip and setting the carton back down, her stomach starting to hurt.

The cookie and the milk was more than she'd had in about a day, since he'd force-fed her in the one motel in Arkansas. Of course it hurt.

She hopped up onto one of the barstools, finally looking at the microwave clock. It was almost midnight. "I want to go finish my movie," she said, dusting her hands off and sliding away from the stool.

"What movie are you watching?"

"_The Philadelphia Story_, you wouldn't know it."

"You should get some sleep."

"You're not my mother," she snapped. Stop treating me like it. It had been two days since he'd shown up in her house, bothering her from her life, and generally disrupting everything she'd come to know. Kidnapping her, essentially, and dragging her back here to Dillon, which was the last place she wanted to be.

Now he wanted her to go to sleep.

I don't like this Tim Riggins at all.

He was different; it wasn't hard to notice. She liked it, but she didn't like it, because she didn't understand it.

I can't go back to my life before.

Tears pricked her eyes, watching the black and white on the TV screen. She sat on the couch, curling into the blanket she'd brought with her from the house. It was the blanket that she'd bought the day she found out she was pregnant.

All she'd felt was a slight…nauseated feeling. So she went to the doctor, expecting it to be food poisoning, but when she was told she was pregnant…she was through the roof. They hadn't talked about children, her and Michael, but when she told him, he'd never been happier.

They found out it was a boy and she'd named him John. It was a good, noble name, and she liked it. They could call him Jack. Like Jack Kennedy. Michael wanted to call him JT, including his middle name, which…she'd convinced him that Timothy was a good name.

And she'd never told Michael that she wanted to name her son with him after her ex-boyfriend. One of the only other strong, good men she'd known in her life.

I lost them both.

I hurt all over. It was phantom pain…anxiety, the doctor told her. PTSD, even.

Tim came over and sat beside her on the couch. "You made cookies at midnight," he said, munching on one of the cookies. "What kind are these anyway? They're good."

She focused on the TV, watching Jimmy Stewart sneak about. This is my favorite movie, she thought idly. "They're chocolate almond," she whispered. She closed her eyes. "They were Michael's favorite."

I don't like to say his name.

It still hurt.

Four months. It had been four months.

And it certainly felt like four months.

Every single day, she could almost remember everything that happened on every single day without him or without the baby in her stomach.

Tim touched her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. "You're talking more, that's good," he whispered.

"I don't want to talk, I want to watch my movie," she snapped. God, shut up, she thought, shaking her head slightly. Just leave me alone. You already pulled me from my home. Uprooted me.

Let me watch the freaking movie.

Of all people, you should just leave me alone.

She sat at the edge of the couch for the rest of the movie, unable to tear her eyes from it. They talk so fast…they talk so elegantly. It'd be nice to put on a pretty dress and go dancing at a country club, just for a few minutes, to pretend you were in some other place.

Lyla turned her head; Tim was still sitting behind her, watching her. Not the movie. Her. "I'm not going to break," she whispered.

"Could have fooled me," he retorted.

You fight me. That's good. No one else did.

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. First night in a new place. She'd already had one terror. There would probably be more. "I'm going to bed," she said, mumbling and standing up, holding her fake-hurt arm against her.

"Lyla."

Don't say my name.

"Breathing deep," he whispered, his voice coming slow and careful. He paused, before continuing after a breath. "Breathing deep doesn't help before you go to sleep. It doesn't help when you wake up. Just…the best thing is to wake up and think of somewhere else. It helps."

How would you know?

"You don't know what it's like," she said, standing in the doorway towards the stairs.

Tim came up beside her, frowning. He shook his head. "No. I only know what it's like to wake up in an eight by ten room with bars on the wall and a two foot by four inch window to look out of. And I know what it's like to hear people screaming in their sleep and…and I know what it's like to have to leave that eight by ten room with your hands behind your back with nothing…not even your dignity. I know what it's like, Garrity, to wake up screaming. To have no control."

You….she lifted her eyes, her brow wrinkled. She shook her head slightly, whispering. "You got over it."

His lip curved up slightly and his eyes twinkled. "I got over it…maybe."

I'm not sleeping with you, she thought, knowing how he got over his issues. Maybe she was jealous. Maybe she didn't really even care. Yeah, in fact, she couldn't bring herself to care about Tim's issues, when she barely knew what hers were.

I don't want your pity. Or your advice.

Lyla turned away from him, going upstairs to the guest room and crashing onto the bed. She closed her eyes, turning a few times, and finally sitting up, taking her book and opening it up to the page she'd left unfinished. She picked up a pen sitting on her nightstand, beginning to write.

_They say it gets better; for me it just gets worse._

_You see, my ex-boyfriend thinks he can help me. _

She paused, lifting her eyes up and staring at the pleasantly decorated room. The happy yellow. It was actually fairly calming. As was the taupe curtains and pillows she was lying against. She pressed her pen back into the book, writing.

_What terrifies me is that I think he might actually be able to help._


	6. If I should meet thee, after long years

_**6. If I should meet thee, after long years?...  
**_

"Where are my pills?" Lyla rummaged in her bag, sitting at the counter, trying to find her Xanax, but she couldn't. She sat it down on the seat beside her, glaring at Tim, who was whistling while he flipped pancakes on the griddle in front of her.

I don't know what is more disturbing, Tim whistling or Tim flipping pancakes.

He'd been stealing her medicine for the last few days.

It had been three days since she woke up in his house, after he'd moved her out here. Six whole days since he barged into her house. She'd notified her physicians, all of whom said they thought it was a great idea for her to get fresh air and a new perspective.

Lyla didn't know if that was the professional answer she wanted.

She wanted the Xanax, damnit.

I'm feeling a panic attack coming along…maybe it was just slight anxiety, because she was going to be seeing her father today, but she wanted the pill to make her feel better. "I'm getting a headache and withdrawal," she said to him, glaring. That was probably not true.

"No you're not, you're addicted."

I'm not addicted.

Pot calling kettle black, anyway, she thought, wrapping her left arm around her right. It still ached. The brace was up in her room; maybe she'd go get it. "I threw that thing out," Tim said, reading her mind. He lifted an eyebrow when her mouth fell open. "You don't need it. It's a crutch so I got rid of it. Start using your right hand more."

"I'm left-handed!"

"So become…multi-handed."

Ambidextrous, she thought, lifting an eyebrow. She glanced to the living room, where a cartoon was playing on the TV. He's treating me like a child. Giving me pancakes in the shape of animals, putting cartoons on the TV, and….God, she thought, shaking her head.

Am I this bad, seriously?

I believe it, if I am.

Tim set her plate in front of her. "Here you go," he said, pouring some syrup over it.

For the love of God!

"I can pour my own syrup!" she snapped.

He drew back, his eyes wide. He's patronizing me, she thought, her eyes narrowing. "Well you know, you did hurt your arm," he replied, his voice soft and innocent, smiling at her. He shrugged a shoulder, his voice cool. "And I was just taking care of you."

Taking care of and smothering are different.

And now she felt a little bad, if that was his point of being sarcastic about her arm still hurting.

Lyla grabbed the plate and her fork, storming into the living room and sitting down in the La-Z-Boy, watching the cartoons. They were horrible. She flicked the channel back to the old movie network. _A Star Is Born_ was playing.

I love Judy Garland, she sighed, watching and eating her pancakes.

"Why do you like these movies?" Tim asked, coming into the living room with his plate of pancakes. He sat down next to her on the couch, watching for a few minutes. He pointed his fork towards it, speaking through food. "I mean, there's no plot!"

"Yes there is," she murmured. She shrugged a shoulder. It was another time. "It's romantic." Where the girl gets the guy and the guy gets the girl and they live happily ever after. Maybe not this movie, but in most of the comedies.

She dragged her pancake through the syrup, lifting it up to nibble. I'm not hungry. Even if it was good. She set it aside.

"Eat it."

"No."

I'm not doing this again. They had had a couple of these little fights, usually over dinner, because she just wasn't hungry. He kept forcing her to eat. I'm not hungry, I don't want to eat.

He said she needed more weight on her bones.

What she needed was to stop being nagged.

Tim got up, taking the plate and carrying it into the living room. "I wasn't done," she called out. I just didn't want it right now.

"Nope. You're not hungry, you don't eat."

"You're an asshole," she shouted, still watching Judy Garland. It was her favorite part. The One That Got Away. I love this song so much. Tears pricked her eyes. It was so sad. So good. Why couldn't it be like this in real life, she wondered, shaking her head a little.

How come the good guy couldn't win, just once?

Her arm ached.

I need my pills. Where are my pills?

"I need my pills," she mumbled, still watching the TV.

Tim returned to the living room, handing her a pill and a glass of water. She looked down at it and then back up to him. "This is over the counter."

"I know. You don't need Vicodin anymore."

She took the pill and held it up, her eyes meeting his. Who do you think you are? My doctor? No, you're the guy who took me away from my home and brought be here, where I don't want to be. Where yes, I feel a little better, but I still don't want to be here!

After a second of staring at him, he won. I can't beat him when it comes to staring and stubbornness. She shoved the pill between her lips and took a sip of water. Instead of passing it to his outstretched hand, she turned around and set it on the table behind her.

"Mature, Garrity."

"Shut up."

Tim glanced down, his voice quiet. "Get dressed, we have to go to your dad's. I told him to come here, but he won't listen, he thinks that you need to be somewhere else."

That's Daddy.

"I don't want to see him."

"Too bad, I've kept him from you for the last three days while you adjust, it's time you see him."

You're not helping me, all you're doing it making me miss Michael. The complete opposite of Tim. Yes, they were both kind and sweet and caring, but Michael was goofy and dorky and he was going to law school. They were going to get married after the baby was born.

Lyla twisted her fingers around her left hand; the empty left hand. Michael had given her his mother's engagement ring. So she'd given it back to her. His mother was single and his father had died when he was a kid. He had a couple siblings, so at least she had someone, but…Lyla didn't want to be that person.

So she'd severed ties, unable to stay around, to help the poor woman. It was too hard.

I have to get away from him, she thought, closing her eyes. Maybe it was good she was here, even if she didn't want to be. It wasn't anywhere Michael had been.

She got up from the chair when the movie was over, going upstairs into her room. The clothes Tim had packed for her were ridiculous. He didn't know anything about women, clearly.

I need more clothes.

Lyla went downstairs, where Tim was cleaning up the kitchen. "I need more clothes," she announced. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She shook her head at his silent questioning. "You didn't pack me the right clothes."

"Well you hadn't done laundry in four months. What clothes do you need?"

"Clothes."

He sighed, walking over to get his keys and cell phone. Lyla shook her head and held her hand out for the keys. "I can go get them myself."

"No, I don't think so," Tim laughed. He smiled, his tongue running over his teeth. After a second of staring at each other, he shook his head again, whispering. Seriously now. "Lyla you're not eating. You're just back…just…I'm not letting you leave here by yourself."

I'm not an invalid.

I just can't function without taking either a prescription painkiller or anxiety medication, I feel fake pain in arm, and sometimes if I'm really tired, I feel like I still have a baby in my stomach.

I haven't told anyone that.

Nor would she.

She turned away from him, going to her tote bag and removing her wallet, glancing over her shoulder him. "Fine. Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

I don't know. Somewhere with clothes. "A mall?" she suggested, stepping her feet into a pair of flip flops near the door. One of her sweaters was draped over the newel post. She picked it up, draping it over her arm.

Must already live here, if my stuff is now scattered around.

Tim opened the front door, letting her walk out before he turned around and locked the door, walking down the steps after her and to the truck. He nodded towards her, his sunglasses already on his face. "You sure you're up for a mall?"

I'm not completely broken.

Maybe I am.

"Yes," she lied.

About thirty minutes later, she was walking around a department store in the Westerbee Mall, touching articles of clothing, but not taking anything off the hangers. She felt Tim hovering near her, keeping his distance, clearing not wanting to be there in the women's sportswear department of Macy's.

What do I even need here?

It was warm, so she'd need summery clothes.

Not sweaters and jeans like Tim had put in her bags.

She fingered a pretty sundress. Something she'd have worn…before. "That's nice," Tim whispered, standing beside her. He nodded towards it. "Get it."

"No," she whispered, letting go of it and wandering away. She turned a corner, freezing.

Not saying a word, she reached forward and touched a small set of overalls. They had a football sewn into the bib. Tears flooded her vision. She smoothed her hand over it, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"Can I help you?" an overly pert teenager asked, putting back some clothes on a display rack, walking over to her, reaching for the overalls. She began to gush. "Aren't these just adorable? I got my nephew like three pairs! How stupid is that? He just spits up all over them anyway, so it's good I got the extras, but still…would you like me to start you at the register so you don't have to hold onto everything while you browse?"

Lyla stared at her. The tears were already falling, before she could stop them. She shook her head quickly, swallowing the dry lump in her throat, feeling it make its way down to her stomach. "No," she sobbed. She covered her hand with her fingertips, shaking her head quickly. "I'm sorry!"

She turned quickly, hearing the girl ask if she was alright or needed anything, but she couldn't hear her, making her way quickly from the baby department and grabbing the sundress she'd been looking at, along with a few others articles of clothing.

Once she had a pile, she threw them at Tim and her wallet, sagging against him slightly. "I can't be here," she gasped, staring at him. You were right. I'm not ready for this.

I'm smothered.

I can't breathe.

Tim dropped the clothes onto a chair, reaching his hands to her face, framing it. Stop doing that, she wanted to scream. You make me feel worse. You make me feel like I don't deserve this.

I deserve it.

It was my fault.

She gasped, gripping at his wrists, trying to fight, knowing they were going to get a crowd if she kept it up. "Just breathe," Tim whispered, his eyes focused on hers. He swallowed hard. His eyes were just as wide as she felt hers were. You don't know what you're doing, she thought.

You're just as clueless as I am.

But you're trying.

Wasn't that all I wanted for you?

She choked, but managed to take a deep breath, feeling her belly and lungs expand. Very slowly she released it, all the way through her fingertips. Her eyes fluttered shut with the breath, repeating it, until she was calming down.

I feel better.

Not alright, just a little better.

"Good," Tim whispered, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He ran his hand over her back. "Good. You feel better?"

Yes.

She nodded quickly. "It was the clothes," she whispered, in case he hadn't already figured it out. I don't owe him an explanation, but I am. The clothes did it. John had a pair of overalls just like that.

I packed them up, after I buried him next to his father. I packed up his father's clothes too.

Lyla leaned back over and gathered her clothing, walking to a register and dropping the pile beside the register. The clerk looked up, surprised. "Spring cleaning," she said, by way of explanation. "Need new everything."

Several minutes later, she got the total, which was astronomical. She flicked her credit card over, waiting, but all she got was an apology in response and request for another.

I thought I paid that one, she thought, reaching for another card and handing it over.

Three credit cards later, all of them declined.

I don't have enough cash, Lyla thought, her heart racing. Her breathing grew shallow, remembering why. Because I only have like a hundred dollars in my checking account, that's why. No income and…and medical bills and funeral costs and…oh my God.

She stepped back from the register, dropping her wallet. I can't do this here.

Tim was right.

Too soon.

"Ma'am? Ma'am are you alright? Excuse me!"

Lyla hurried away, out of the department store, while Tim stuck around. She made her way out and to a bench, sitting beside it, her hands covering her face. I hope no one saw that. How embarrassing.

I've had two breakdowns in this damn mall. Two. In about fifteen minutes.

She lifted her face up, when a shadow crossed over. Tim was holding about twenty bags, full of the clothes. "You…" she trailed off, realizing. He bought her clothes. She shook her head quickly, whispering. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes I did." He smiled a little, his eyes dancing. "Thought you said you weren't poor, Garrity."

"I'm not," she snapped. She shrugged a shoulder, a little sheepish. "I just don't have any credit left, apparently." Her money was tied up in stocks and bonds. What little she actually had.

Tim smiled, helping her up from the bench and giving her a couple of the bags. "Well who'd have thought there'd come a day when Tim Riggins had better credit than Lyla Garrity?"

"You have a credit card?"

"I do. Shock, I know. I also have a mortgage." He smiled. "And I pay taxes."

She blinked, glancing sideways. "Seriously?" she whispered.

He flashed another smile, leaning his face into hers, his nose brushing against hers. "Things have changed, Lyla."

You went through something terrible and dragged yourself up. With help from Tyra, but still.

And I am still going through something terrible and I can't seem to get my ass to eat all of a pancake. Or look at a pair of baby clothes without crying. She took a deep breath, very slowly letting it out, and following beside him out of the department store, to the truck.

Tim glanced her way. "You want to take a detour before we get home? I know you're not too keen on seeing your dad quite yet."

I don't really care. She shrugged, in response.

They drove away, going far from Dillon. This wasn't just a detour, she realized, recognizing the landmarks. She smiled a little, watching the lake loom ahead, about an hour later.

He pulled in beside it, parking the truck and climbing out, helping her, lightly lifting her hips and dropping her feet to the dirt and gravel. He leaned over her, whispering, his forehead slightly touching hers. "You need this Garrity. Just a minute to breathe. Or other things, where no one can hear you."

What are you talking about?

Lyla followed him down to the dock, to a boat, and climbed in after him. She looked around, remembering one of the last times she was here. They were getting ready to leave for college. He'd brought her down here for one last skinnydipping session, but found Landry and Tyra instead.

So they'd gone down the road, to the other side of the lake, which wasn't as pretty, but served its purpose. The time before that had been a party. Some more parties. It wasn't like it was 'their' place. They didn't really have one, but it held memories. The three of them.

I feel like my pain isn't the same, that people think I'm just Lyla overreacting or something. I should be strong, I was always strong…I always dealt with things. Stop feeling sorry for myself.

"You're not feeling sorry for yourself."

Stop reading my mind.

Lyla lifted her eyes up from her folded hands, finding that they were already in the center of the lake. She shrugged, looking at him. He didn't pity her. Nor was he telling her what to do. Right now, at least. "I am," she whispered, looking out at the lake again. I am feeling sorry for myself. She hiccupped. "I spend my days lying around and moping, Tim. Missing people. Things that I didn't even have…Jason broke his neck and he didn't do that. He dealt with things…"

Hell… She laughed, gesturing to him. "Hell, you didn't do that! You got better and you moved on and…and whatever you ended up doing it worked!"

"I'm just sitting here, unable to go a day without a pill, and wishing I could just…could just die the way I was supposed to die that night!" she sobbed, tearing at her hair.

That's what this was about.

Tim cocked his head, his brow wrinkled, and his eyes widened. He shook his head, whispering. "You weren't supposed to die. You're here."

"Yes I was!" she screamed. Now she knew what he meant. Scream it out. She sobbed, her fingers gripping the bench beneath her. She shook her head again. "I was supposed to die, that's why he hit me first! He hit me first and I was supposed to die and Michael was supposed to just give him everything and…and he didn't and instead he killed Michael and I was left alive in that gutter!"

I was the one the paramedics started working on first, because I was the one who was pregnant, and I was the one who had the slashed neck and…and whose surgery would probably kill me so they delivered the baby and…and the baby died.

It was my fault.

I was the one who wanted to take the shortcut. I said it would be faster to get to the car. Faster and deadlier.

Lyla smacked her face with her hands, reaching up to tear at her hair again, sobbing. "I should have died," she cried, over and over again, falling forward. She finally stood up and just screamed.

It was the loudest she'd been in her entire life. All those times she wanted to just scream at the world, before she calmed down and thought about how pointless that was, that she could do something with her life and pain. Help Jason. Be a good Christian. Go to a good school. Do something with my life.

This wasn't pointless though.

This felt like a release.

She stumbled a little, when she finally finished, a few minutes later, laughing slightly.

Somehow she didn't fall out of the boat. Tim had his arms around her. Let me fall over. Just let me fall beneath the water and suck it up into my lungs.

It should have been me.

She blinked, lifting her face up to his. He was looking at her. Not with pity. Like she expected. She cocked her head, blinking again, watching him. He smoothed his palm over her cheek, his thumb brushing at the tears. She covered her hand with his.

The sun around his hair made him look angelic.

I always thought you were the devil, she thought with a goofy smile. Dragging me to sin and depravity…not really. You were the one who saved me the last time I fell into this type of funk.

Compared to this, losing her college money was frivolous. Stupid little girl, crying over that loss.

Her eyes closed. She took a deep breath and slowly released it. "I should have died," she mumbled, shaking her head in his lap. She smiled a little. "I died twice. They brought me back. I died when they got me in the operating room, from loss of blood…I died when they told me about my baby and about Michael…they brought me back…I wish they hadn't. I should be with them."

"It wasn't your time," he whispered, still running his thumb over her cheek. He shrugged a shoulder. "We live and we die, but…only something else decides when and where we end."

You were never religious, but I know you have your own moral code. Can I borrow it sometime? Right now I don't feel anything. "Did you think that?" she breathed, a few minutes later, the sound of the water lapping at the boat almost taking her to sleep. She opened her eyes again, meeting his. She smiled again, briefly.

I know nothing of your time in the black hole.

All I know are rumors, innuendo…supposition. I want to know.

If you expect me to listen to you help me…if that is what you are doing, then I need to know about how you were helped. Other than what I've heard third-hand.

He sighed, shaking his head, whispering. "No, I just…just hated Billy. I hated…everything. Hated myself. Hated him. Hated the world. I was not a very good person when I left. I went through motions…got a job, did my thing…" He trailed off, taking a deep and steadying breath. "But the one thing that did help me, I realized, was that I didn't do it alone."

"You had Tyra."

"Yeah," he whispered. He smiled slightly. "And Becky…and Billy, even. I mean…he was sorry. Took him awhile to figure out how to show it, but…I still have trouble sometimes Garrity. It doesn't go away for good. It never will."

That's what I'm so scared of…how am I ever supposed to love again? Have children?

In time, she supposed, but right now she just missed them both. She just hurt all over.

She bit her lower lip, sitting up a little, her arm going around his shoulders to steady herself. She rested her hand in his, waiting a second. Something occurred to her. "Where is Tyra now?" she whispered, turning her face to meet his.

"I would imagine she's in New York, where she's going to graduate school."

"And then where is she going to go?"

He shrugged. "Wherever she can. Anywhere but Dillon, that's Tyra's plan."

"So you guys…aren't…together?" That's what it seemed like. What I heard. What you made it sound like. She keeps calling you; I can see your cell phone.

He frowned, his brow wrinkling, thinking. He shook his head, whispering. "I don't…no, no we're not…together exactly."

"Exactly?"

"We…" He sighed. Clearly this was uncomfortable. Too bad. I won't be the reason you break up with someone. With someone you love, who knows you. Who loves you too. You need that, as much as I do. He shrugged, a little stiffer this time. He mumbled, glancing away. "We hook up sometimes, but…it's like a future thing. Maybe…if it happens. If it doesn't…it doesn't."

So like a fate thing. You're leaving it up to when you're in the same place at the same time.

"She hates Dillon," she whispered. Didn't that mean something to that plan?

He shrugged. "Maybe one day she won't."

You're putting it on Tyra. That's not very fair. You won't leave, you won't change your mind, and so she has to? Doesn't seem fair. So she told him. "That's not fair."

He frowned. "Huh?"

She shook her head, whispering. "That's not fair to put it on Tyra. To make it her choice. You say when the time is right, one day, but…that would mean she has to come back to Dillon. You don't ever want to leave. Hard and fast, right? She's not worth you leaving?"

He stilled, not saying a word. After a moment, his lip quirked a little, but his voice trembled. "Not like that. I…she's…"

"Don't lie to yourself." She leaned back in the boat, watching the water lap at the edge of it. Reaching over, she touched her fingers to it, dragging them around in the cool pond. Her voice felt faraway. "It's not fair to Tyra Tim. That whole…maybe one day thing when you're not going to give up anything for it."

Wasn't that kind of like what we did, she thought, frowning slightly. That whole maybe one day?

Once again, he could read her thoughts. He chuckled. "It wasn't like that Garrity. I mean…it wasn't even like that with you and me. You were far beyond me."

It was funny he said that. She smiled a little, a happy memory invading in her dark thoughts. "When I got off the bus in Nashville…I dropped my bag…I was upset, you see…I'd been crying…I was sad about us and…and I was going to miss you and what…what I wanted with you and what I wanted for you, so…I dropped my bag and this guy picked it up…I stepped on his foot."

It hurt. Not as badly as it did a few months ago, but it still was an aching squeeze on her heart. "Michael picked up my bag," she whispered. She closed her eyes, tears streaming. She sobbed, covering her face with her hand, turning into his chest.

And they floated on the water for what seemed like hours.

Eventually, she stopped crying, but remained in his arms. They were a very comforting place to be.

I still don't know why you had to come and get me. I still don't know why it had to be you.

But, she sighed, lifting her face to his, smiling a little. Tim returned the smile and smoothed his hand back over her hair, until he tugged her closer to him again. She smiled again.

At least it was someone who knew her.

And who knew what it was like.


	7. How should I greet thee?

**A/N:**Thank you for all the reviews! The fic is generally complete, I'm adding a few scenes here and there to flesh it out, but it's going to be long, just FYI. I'll try to start spacing the chapters out more, so there might not be daily updates after this one. I don't want to rush through it. Enjoy!

* * *

_**7. How should I greet thee?...  
**_

Well this really sucks.

She sat on the porch, her knees drawn to her chest, while Buddy sat across from her in one of the folding chairs, telling her about how he would let her work at the bar if she wanted to make some extra cash and how they'd work with a psychologist and could get her into some sort of program at a local hospital.

What part of I don't want hospitals do you not understand, she wondered, closing her eyes. She had to have one of the most selfish families in the world. They came to the funeral, but overall, they didn't care.

It wasn't that they didn't care, she thought, dragging her toe along the edge of the porch swing. Her mother was just…selfish. Pam had tried to help her in those couple months afterward, but maybe she'd put on a front and just…it was far more stressful with her mother trying to help.

And lately she'd been lying to her mom, trying to seem okay, just because she didn't want her flying out to try to take care of her. It meant eating gross food and doing yoga all day and getting that mind and body connection going again.

I really don't care about that, my mind and body connection will be fine out here. I don't need to bend myself backwards to do it. So Pam didn't know; she was sure Buddy had called to bitch at her about it, but Lyla's phone hadn't gone off so if they were fighting, they'd taken a mature leap and weren't dragging their adult children into it.

Tabby had called her a few times, but Lyla wasn't close with her sister. She was Kevin's daughter in more ways than she was Buddy's. Except Tabby had gotten the Garrity selfishness. She was in some retreat in Thailand.

Buddy said something about her brother; he was hanging around UT with some of his friends. Not that Lyla was close with him either. He was the youngest. She took care of them…but she didn't expect them to take care of her.

"I think maybe baby you should come stay with me," Buddy said, leaning over and placing his hand on hers. He frowned; he was genuinely concerned.

You're still my father, she thought, lifting her eyes to meet his. She shook her head slightly. "No," she answered. She nibbled on her bottom lip. Yesterday she was supposed to see him, but after the lake, Tim brought her back to the house and let her sleep off the emotion, delaying Buddy again another day.

"No?"

"I'm fine here." That was true. Tim was…letting her just do her thing. She baked a lot. He was so skinny; even if she didn't want to eat the cupcakes and cookies and cake she made, he was taking it somewhere because it would disappear.

Buddy frowned, getting up from the chair and sitting beside her on the porch swing. He reached over and took her hand, genuinely concerned. He wasn't making it about himself; that was good. She turned her face slightly. "I know," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. She shrugged. "I'm a mess…I know I should have told you."

It made her feel a little guilty, the sadness with which he looked at her.

I just didn't want the pity.

"Lyla, baby, have you gone outside?"

At night, he was trying to say. She shook her head, mouthing "No."

"Does Tim know?"

"Yes, he knows…most of it."

Buddy leaned back on the porch, watching her. Don't look at me like that, she thought, closing her eyes, her voice fading. "I'm not sleeping with him," she whispered. She spoke in a hurry, before he could interrupt her. "Not that you probably need to know that anyway, but…I know you worry about Tim like that…that he'll do something to upset me or something…"

"No, I don't worry about that Lyla." Her father leaned forward a little, turning her face towards his. He was genuinely concerned, his forehead wrinkled, and his jaw set. He was being serious. It was hard to reconcile this image with the one she had of her father during her childhood. He wasn't the best in the world, but at least he loved us, she thought, waiting on him to speak.

Which he did, after thinking for a minute about what he was going to say. "You know, Tim's changed…I guess that's why I called him…" He sighed, smiling shakily. "You were…I didn't know what was happening to you sweetheart. Just that you didn't answer the phone and…and your friends called me and your mother and…I knew you wouldn't listen if I went so I guess I sent Tim."

And he listened to you; he went because you sent him. What happened between you guys while I was gone? They were really close; she'd never known her father to be as warm with Tim on a personal level as he seemed to be now. For football reasons, yeah, of course he liked the guy, but she still couldn't really match it up with Buddy Garrity who was bitching about her dating Tim because he was terrified she'd end up…well like Mindy.

She fiddled with the hem of her shirt. "He did a good thing, bringing me back here." That was hard for her to admit, but she couldn't deny it was…helpful. If not, she'd probably still be taking pills to numb everything and burying herself beneath quilts on her couch, refusing to face the world.

Buddy smiled, looking a little stupid-happy. She frowned; he was happy about Tim doing that for her…like…really, really happy. "He did a good thing Lyla. He cares about you. A father appreciates that in a man. I'm sorry about Michael, baby. I loved that boy too, but…baby have you thought about your job?"

No. I was an account manager at the same law firm as Michael was a paralegal. They politely told me to take a leave of absence and then sent me a severance check a few days later. That had been two months ago. She wasn't showing up to work anyway and when she did, she did nothing but stare out the window.

Business, that was what she wanted to do. "No," she answered truthfully. She plucked at her hemline again. "How's Bud?" Buddy Junior refused to be called anything but 'Bud' now. She figured changing the subject would be easier for her.

"He's okay. I think he's failing out of Sam Houston though."

Well yeah, because Sam Houston College was in San Antonio and Bud spent most of his time in Austin with his friend Hastings, who played for UT. She lifted her eyebrows. "Maybe he'll come back and work the bar for you."

"He wants to move back to California. Your sister said she'd be here for Christmas." Buddy sighed, shaking his head slightly. "I don't want to talk about your brother and sister, they're not why I'm here. I want to help you Lyla, what can I do to help you?"

"Just let me…" she trailed off, scanning the horizon. She sighed, whispering. "Just let me be." That's what she needed right now.

Buddy said nothing, but sat with her on the porch swing. It was actually nice; Lyla loved her father, she loved him very much, but often times with him she felt like she was the parent, having to calm him down from a high or a funk and helping him deal with his life. This was a rare time when they both were just…still.

She pushed her toes off the porch, wondering if her father could answer some questions she still had about Tim. For her caretaker, he didn't talk to her much. At least, not about himself. She knew very little of this new Tim.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him working on something in the back, with power tools, beneath a tree. Looked like steps. "So," she said, lifting her face to the roof of the porch. "Tim built this all himself, huh?"

"Fine work."

That must have been Buddy's answer of yes.

She pursed her lips, glancing out towards the road. It was so removed from the rest of the town. Maybe she'd driven by this land once or twice, she wasn't sure. It was Tim and Jason's dream, she thought, smiling a little. It was nice. She wondered if Jason had been out here yet.

Buddy seemed to be reading her mind as well, talking quietly. "People thought he was crazy, building this house by himself, but…he had help from people he worked with. Jason came out and even directed some of the work."

"What's he do now?" He hadn't said anything about a job, other than those comments in the mall, about paying taxes, having a mortgage, and credit. Lyla wasn't sure who would hire a felon. Whether he was or not; he'd made enough comments to her and she'd heard enough of rumors to believe that he had taken the fall for Billy and she knew full well he wasn't physically capable of doing what he was in prison for doing.

Tim was dumb about certain things and fairly naïve about others, but he knew what a chop shop was and how illegal it actually was. He'd break the law on some things, but Lyla was positive he'd never do anything incredibly illegal.

Although she didn't know who he was anymore, by the time she got the news.

Buddy waited a moment; are you so loyal to him now that you won't tell your own daughter, she thought, glancing sideways. He frowned a little, shrugging. "He's a regional manager for Everly Construction."

"That big outfit in Austin?" They did schools and office buildings. No remodeling for them. They had state contracts. She frowned. "Really?"

"Started off as a regular old hourly worker and the foreman liked him, gave him a job and he proved he could do it. He goes around this part of the state and supervises the projects." Buddy immediately grew nervous. "Don't tell him I told you, he doesn't like people knowing."

Knowing that he was responsible? Good Lord. Lyla rolled her eyes, scanning the front yard again. It needed water. Maybe some flowers. "Yeah, whatever."

"I'm sorry I didn't come see you baby. I really am…I had no idea…"

Don't make me comfort you now. She turned to face him, shrugging a shoulder, whispering. "It's okay Daddy."

"He was my grandchild Lyla, I should have…" Buddy heaved a deep sigh. "Should have been there for you longer."

Maybe you should have, it probably wouldn't have mattered if you were there longer or Mom was there longer or…or anyone was there longer. They all had to return to their lives. Including her.

Probably was, she didn't return to her life.

She glanced away from Buddy, frowning at an unfamiliar car turning from the street onto the drive. It was a minivan. An older model, but nevertheless a minivan.

Tim knew people who had minivans?

Buddy frowned. "What's Mindy doing here?"

Mindy?

A woman that Lyla didn't recognize stepped out of the driver's seat. It wasn't until she turned completely and Lyla saw the bedazzled sunglasses and purse, to go with the oversize button down shirt and skinny jeans that were tucked into a pair of platform heels. Her hair was highlighted and pulled back in a high ponytail.

It was a very strange mix of 'mom' and 'model.' Mindy pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, waving as she walked towards the house. "Hey!" she called, dropping her purse on the ground and stepping up onto the porch. She smiled a little softer. "What up Garrity?"

Lyla quirked her lip; she hadn't seen Mindy since she left Dillon. It was funny, because she felt like the two of them understood each other, after that night where they were trashing the Riggins brothers they'd both seem to fall in love with and spend way too much time on. She realized Mindy was a good person. A little dumb, but her view of the world was almost a better version. She knew where she stood and embraced it.

And Lyla kind of always wished that she'd been able to do that with her own life, but she was always trying to find some way out of whatever situation she was in, whether it was getting out of Dillon for a good school or getting out of…of this depression.

Buddy stood up from the swing, patting her shoulder. "I'm going to get to the bar, you're looking good baby, I'll check in on you tomorrow." He gave her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek.

She didn't say anything about him wanting to check on her; Tim probably wouldn't be thrilled with Buddy dropping by unannounced. Maybe she could convince him to let her drive over to Buddy's house or something.

Lyla waited until her father was driving off before she turned her complete attention to Mindy.

This might be interesting.


	8. In silence and tears

_**8. ...In silence and tears.**_

After a few minutes of the two of them squaring off, Lyla finally spoke, gesturing towards the sound of the power tools and rock music in the back. "Tim's working."

"I'm not here to see Tim," Mindy said. She seemed a little nervous, her lower lip tugged beneath her upper teeth. She fiddled with her hands, her heels clicking on the porch, stepping towards her. "Um…" She began to twist at her wedding ring, finding it very interesting. "So…"

"So." What are you doing here Mindy, if it isn't to talk to Tim?

She got up from the porch swing, walking by Mindy, her bare feet padding across the porch, going into the house through one of the doors on the side of the house. Tim left them open a lot; he didn't have air conditioning, which she didn't think was necessary. Not out here, where there was enough of a breeze coming across the prairie.

I don't…she turned around in the kitchen, unsure what to do with her hands. She frowned a little, seeing Mindy's curious look. "What?" she whispered. Did she have something on her face? Not like she put on makeup anymore. She probably looked terrible.

Or really cared about her appearance, she reminded herself.

Mindy took two steps towards her, pushing her hair out of her face and over her shoulder, looking at the scar. She cringed. "Wow…he really got you."

Holy shit.

Lyla stifled a laugh. He really got me. Yeah, something like that. That was…wow. The first time someone had just…blurted out the truth about her. Didn't shy away from it or…or try to look anywhere but at her scar. She smiled a little. "Really?" she whispered. That's what you want to say? "He really got me?"

"Well he did! That's a crazy scar. I'm sorry about…" Mindy gestured her hand, her voice squeaking out a little through her clenched teeth, not wanting to say it, but saying it anyway. "About your baby…I can't imagine, I mean…I have three, you know?"

Yes. Stevie and the twins, Lyla couldn't remember their names. Tim had some pictures of them posted around the house. She reached for Tim's phone, tugging it towards her, just to give herself something to play with. This was incredibly awkward.

I don't know Mindy. I don't know this Mindy and I never did. Why would she want to talk to me? To check out the competition for her sister?

Better make that clear.

"I'm not fucking Tim," she mumbled, scanning the missed calls from Tyra. She went to the main page. There was nothing on this phone. No games or apps of any sort. Just Tim's contacts and Tim's calls.

"Whoa Garrity. I'm not talking about Tim's sex life."

She lifted her eyes. Oh. "Then why are you here?" she whispered. If not to spy for Tyra, then what? We're not friends. You're a mother; you certainly don't want to talk to someone who lost their child. She straightened up from where she'd been leaning on the counter.

Mindy was just looking at her; her face was impassive. She sighed after a second. "Look Garrity, I'm here because I have one kid who is in summer camp and two kids who are currently tearing apart my mother's house and I needed a damn break, but I was driving around and realized that you're probably sitting here and you want to get away from Mr. Brooding Pants out there…"

That was a bit of an understatement.

"And I have to work tonight and don't feel like doing anything, so I thought I'd come over here and see if you wanted to go out and get your nails done, if you feel up to it or something," Mindy said. She smiled slightly, gesturing to the living room. "Or we can stay here, I don't care."

What is the town saying about me, you want to talk about that as well? Not like I really care. Lyla lifted her eyes from the counter, whispering. "You don't want to stare at the freak?"

"Why would you be a freak?"

I don't know. She shrugged, whispering again. "Lost my kid. My fiancé. I went crazy and Tim Riggins is the one who is trying to make me better…what isn't freakish about that?"

The other woman pursed her lips, studying her for a second. She smiled, after a few seconds. "Tim's different," she whispered. She glanced out the window. Tim was in his own world, sawing something in half out beneath one of the trees. She glanced back to Lyla. "And believe me Garrity, I'm not spying for my little sister. I'm not too hot on the idea of my badass and awesome baby sister coming back to Dillon to become the wife of a Riggins, not that that's her plan, but I want to keep it that way. Doesn't mean I'm also too hot on the idea of a crazy person going after my brother-in-law, who I love to death."

That made her smile.

Crazy.

Guess I am.

It was…refreshing to have someone standing with her who wasn't treating her like a delicate flower. Not that Tim treated her that way, but…he was always watching her. Mindy was just…no filter, and who cares, calling her crazy and stuff.

It was a bit of a relief.

"Now," Mindy said, clapping her hands together. She walked over to the fridge, opening it up and removing the milk and bag of cookies from the night before. She shut the door, shoving them onto the counter, going to another cupboard to remove cups. "Why don't you take a seat and I'll tell you about what you've missed the past few years. Did you know that Tim got a tattoo?"

What!?

Her eyes widened. "No," she whispered, her voice soft. She shook her head slightly. The hell? He got a tattoo? Clearly she was out of the loop. Well, of course she was out of the loop. "What else have I missed?"

Not that I care.

"You missed the first Starbucks to hit Dillon, you missed that some celebrity moved nearby to some hunting ranch, and you missed that Smash Williams decided to buy a whole new stadium for the Panthers and you missed that Becky, you remember Becky? She and Luke, you never met Luke, did you? He was at East Dillon, well they got married before he went to Afghanistan and they're having…" Mindy caught herself.

Having a baby, Lyla finished for her. She released a long breath, forcing a smile. "People have babies Mindy," she whispered, taking a cookie. She wasn't hungry. Although the pancakes every morning was starting to make her jeans a little tighter on her hips. She bit into the cookie, chewing thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but…" Mindy ran her tongue over her teeth, smiling again. She moved on, not saying anything further on the topic of babies. She broke apart a cookie, picking out an almond and popping it between her lips. "So I'm still at the Landing Strip, but I'm manager now, what are you doing?"

"Thinking about becoming a stripper."

Mindy almost choked on the cookie.

Good, Lyla thought, smiling a little around the rim of her glass. She took a sip of milk, setting it down beside the crumbling remains of her cookie, waiting for Mindy to finish. "Excuse me?" she choked out, swallowing a gulp of water. She coughed again. "Stripper, you?"

"I was a cheerleader. I have moves."

"Not stripper ones."

"What else am I going to do?" she said, shrugging, her eyebrows lifting. It wasn't like she was serious. She just wanted to see what the reaction would be. Something fun to do. She smiled darkly. "Not like many people want to hire crazy people with neck scars and agoraphobia issues."

Good, she thought, when she saw the strange look cross Mindy's face. It wasn't fear. It was just…they didn't understand her. She thought she'd done what she wanted, to push Mindy away, because she didn't like how close she was getting.

Yes, was it nice to talk to someone other than Tim? Maybe. Did she want to be best friends? No.

I don't want to talk about this crap.

She thought she had truly stumped Mindy, until Mindy just flashed a smile, wide and toothy. "You'd make a decent stripper. You do have the body and those little prissy looks. Men will eat that up. Tim certainly did and you dragged him around by the…"

"Mindy."

They both turned their heads, seeing Tim standing in the doorway, frowning at her. "Uh oh," Lyla chirped. She smiled again. Now this might be really interesting; she'd fulfilled her entertainment quota for the day. It was kind of nice, especially after having to cope with her father. "Daddy's home. Guess the party's over Mindy."

"You're a party pooper Tim."

"Good," Tim stated, walking over to stand at the other side of the kitchen island. He glanced in her direction. I don't have anything visible, she thought, biting into her cookie, giving him a look with a lifted eyebrow. He cocked his head, smiling slowly. "You okay?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Fine."

"Good." He turned to Mindy, scowling. "So you're just going to drop by? Eat my food? I thought I told you guys to call before you came over."

That was interesting, Lyla thought, turning her head towards Mindy, who arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. She kept silent, eating her cookie and watching the two of them square off towards each other. Tim opened his mouth again, speaking quietly. "She doesn't need you bothering her Mindy. What did I hear about stripping?"

"I'm going to be a stripper," Lyla piped up. Not that it was true; Tim knew it was true. She just wanted to see his reaction.

Mindy chuckled.

Tim glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing to her, his attention on Mindy. "Call next time," he whispered, stepping around her, putting the milk back in the fridge. He closed the door, gesturing to the stairs. "I'm getting a shower."

"Have fun," she called, sliding off the barstool and stepping towards him before he went upstairs. He was wearing a muscle shirt, torn down the sides a little. She didn't say anything to him and jerked at one of the arms of it, staring at the ink on his upper rib. She pushed him back a little, scowling. "You got a tattoo."

"You want to be a stripper," Tim retorted, turning around and going upstairs, whistling to himself.

Touche, Lyla thought, although she didn't want to be a stripper. She didn't know what she wanted. She sat back on the stool, looking at Mindy, who was just looking at her, curious about something. "What?" she snapped.

"Nothing. I just find it funny that you don't do anything with your life and then Tim comes along and you're, you know, getting better or whatever," Mindy commented.

That's not what this is about.

Mindy continued. "You know Tim needed something to do too. You heard him say we had to call. He's fine, but he's just…" She waved her hand. "He gets a little hermit-ish. Sometimes he stays away from Billy. They're better, but…I guess you know about that all by now."

I guess I do.

"But he's family and he's weird and he does his thing. Anyway…" Mindy slapped her hands on the counter, straightening up, plastering a smile on her face. Her voice returned to being sweet again, rather than serious. "I guess I better get going, I just wanted to check on you. I'll stop by some other time; see if you want to go out or something. You should come to the bar."

The bar. The bar was open at night. Night was dark.

No bar.

She cleared her throat; her hands were beginning to tremble at the thought. "Ah…yeah, I'll…think about it."

"And if you are serious about the stripping thing just stop by, I'll train you."

And yeah, that wasn't happening. Although Lyla appreciated Mindy keeping up with the little charade. She nodded, sliding off the stool again. "Sure."

Mindy walked to the front door, her sky-high heels clicking loudly. She waved her hand. "Becky is still in Dillon, waiting on Luke to get some transfer or something to California, you should hang out with us sometime Garrity. We're not as prissy as you, but I think it might be okay." She opened up the front door, turning around, smiling quickly. "Or maybe you're still too prissy for us, huh?"

I was dying in a gutter four months ago. I think my prissiness has subsided into just paranoia. Lyla quirked her lip. "See you around Mindy."

"Later Garrity."

After Mindy's minivan drove off, Lyla closed the door, flicking the lock. It seemed silly, to lock a door out here in Texas, where most everyone knew each other, but…she felt safer with the locked door. She turned around, looking up the stairs. It was kind of nice…that little chat with Mindy.

Not that they really even discussed anything, but…yeah, that human contact with someone other than Tim or her father was kind of refreshing. She didn't know Becky, but…maybe she'd give them a call. Maybe.

She went upstairs, walking into Tim's room and crawling up onto his bed with her book, beginning to write. It was therapeutic. She set the pen down on the page, sighing and lifting her eyes when the bathroom door opened.

"Jesus Garrity!" Tim ran back into the bathroom, emerging a moment later with a towel around his waist. He scowled at her. "You ever realize that sometimes people want privacy?"

"Nothing I haven't seen before," she droned, taking the pen again and writing. She looked up, seeing him standing there in his hastily wrapped towel, dripping wet, and annoyed. She nodded towards him, scowling herself. "You have a tattoo."

"Not the end of the world if someone gets a tattoo."

"I want one."

"No you don't, you're just saying that." He grabbed a pair of jeans, disappearing into the bathroom, yelling through the closed door. "You get a tattoo and you'll have another nervous breakdown when you realize what you did." He emerged a moment later, dropping his towel into a laundry basket, without bothering to hang it up.

It will mildew, she thought, wanting to go hang it up. Maybe later. This morning she'd folded up his clothes, because he just threw them into his dresser drawers.

He came over, sitting beside her on the bed. "Mindy leave?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

Stop asking me that! She shrugged, closing her book and setting it aside, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She tucked her chin down against her chest and her forehead dropped to her knees. I don't know what to do with my life.

You have a steady job. You have a house. You have boundaries set with your brother for once in your life. Mindy is a mother and she's still a stripper and she's still just…Mindy. My father even has finally found a successful business and balance in his life.

And I'm just sitting here, trying to get through each day.

His hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pushing her head farther between her knees. It seemed to relieve some pressure off her chest. "Breathe," he whispered.

So she breathed.

"The tattoo says no regrets."

Huh?

She lifted her head slowly, turning her cheek on her knee, looking at him sideways. "It says what?" she murmured, unsure she heard him correctly.

He turned his torso a little, showing her the tattoo across his ribs, beneath his arm. It was black, in some other language. "Says no regrets," he whispered. He shrugged a shoulder, not waiting for her question, which was on the tip of her tongue. "I was with Six. We had a bit too much; he wanted another one, with his kid's name on it or something. I got this."

No regrets huh? You always said that. A mantra, more than a catchphrase. Something to live by. I wonder if you truly mean it. She lifted her eyebrow. "You don't regret going to jail for Billy?"

He stiffened a little. Yeah, I know, she thought. I can figure things out Tim. He shook his head, his voice trembling. "I…I didn't go to jail for Billy." The darkness in his eyes appeared again. Yeah right. Sure you didn't.

She sighed. "Don't lie to me Tim. I know you better than you think I do. Better than most people think I do and I know you're not capable of doing anything like you said you did." She turned her head back around, to go between her knees, breathing deep.

They were both quiet, their breathing filling the silence of the room. He broke it, a few minutes later. "I don't regret it. It was kind of a wake-up call."

A wake-up call. Understatement.

He placed his hand on her shoulder again. "What do you want for dinner?"

Like we're some old married couple.

She lifted her face, whispering, her eyes closing. "I don't know. Surprise me."

"Chinese?"

"You hate Chinese food."

"Yeah, but you like it," he said, climbing off the bed. He reached for her feet, dragging her to the end of the bed, her head knocking backwards onto the pillow. "Come on Garrity, get up!"

She smiled, her book falling to the side. She curled her fingers into the quilt, bracing herself on the bed, splayed out, shaking her head and saying nothing. Her smile came without her knowing, when he leaned over and dragged his fingers up her bare legs to beneath her knees.

No, don't, she was about to yelp, when he dug his fingers into the crook. She screeched, jumping up and tackling into him, giggling as he lifted her off the bed, setting her back to her feet. "That's not fair!" she exclaimed, once she finished giggling. "You can't tickle me!"

"Too bad, I just did. Let me finish getting dressed and we'll go get food."

No. She shook her head, her smile and face falling. No, I don't want to go outside and get food. "Bring it back here," she whispered, turning and leaving the room, going into her bedroom and crawling up to the head of her bed, opening up her book again.

I don't want to go out.

He appeared in the doorway, leaning against it and crossing his ankles. He just studied her for a moment. Don't shrink me, she thought, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I'm not going out and you can't make me," she announced.

"You're right, I can't."

Tim waited another moment, turning around and leaving. She heard him on the phone a minute later. She continued to write, until there was knocking on the door. She stood, walking to the banister and peering down in the foyer.

There was some kid she didn't recognize; she thought he might have been a former football player, based on his build. He was handing Tim the few bags of food while Tim passed over cash to him. He wasn't a delivery guy. He was wearing a t-shirt that said "ARMY" on the front and had a very nice smile, his eyes crinkling.

She leaned over the banister, listening to Tim thank the guy, whose name was Luke, and saying he'd see him in a few days.

"Maybe I should bring Becky by," Luke suggested.

Oh, so this was Luke. The guy in the Army, one of Tim's friends. Married to that girl…the one Mindy talked about. Lyla vaguely remembered her. She must have been in high school when they met.

Tim shook his head, his voice quiet; she had to strain to hear him. "Not yet. I don't think she's ready."

"I heard she's pretty messed up."

"She's not messed up," Tim defended. He sighed, leaning on the door, whispering. "She's just…she's not broken, she's just cracked a little."

Cracked.

Lyla waited until Luke left, before she turned around, going back into her room and sitting on the edge of the bed. Was that what Tim thought she was, cracked?

Cracked things weren't broken, they just…they just looked like it, but they really weren't.

She smiled slightly. At least that was better than crazy.

"Garrity!"

She cleared her throat, calling out. "Coming!" After a second of just waiting, she stood up, going downstairs, leaving her book in her bedroom.


	9. Fictions of flimsy romance

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! Enjoy :) It gets a little lighter after this chapter.

* * *

**_9. _**_**Aw**_**_ay with your fictions of flimsy romance, those tissues of falsehood which Folly has wove_**

I have got to get you away from that TV.

Tim sat beside Lyla on the couch; his feet propped on the coffee table and slumped back, watching her focus on the black and white moving playing. He gestured towards it. "Why do they all hate Boo Radley? He's just different."

"They don't like him because he's different, they don't know him."

"But he saves Scout."

"Yes, now shh, it's almost over and _The African Queen_ is next."

That's what she said when she sat down earlier that morning to watch _Casablanca_. He'd gotten sucked into Rick and Isla's relationship, annoyed at how the end kind of mirrored him and Lyla. We'll always have Paris.

We'll always have Dillon.

Then she'd watched two Hitchcock movies in a row and now _To Kill A Mockingbird._ All she'd done was pause the TV to go to the bathroom or get more water or something. He was just glad she hadn't had a pill in a few days or that she was no longer favoring her right arm.

Even when the movies were going though, she did have that book in her lap, writing away. He wondered if it was a diary or something. Seemed to help her. When she was finished, she seemed tired and relaxed.

She made eye contact, at least.

Tim couldn't handle the movie any longer and got up, ignoring her protests that it was the best part. He went into the kitchen to find something to make for dinner, thinking maybe it might be okay to bring her out of the house to go get something. Maybe bring it back, but…at least get out of the house.

They hadn't left since her breakdown in Macy's. Or at the lake.

Or again at Buddy's.

After Mindy's little impromptu visit the other day, coupled with Buddy finally seeing Lyla, she hadn't left the house. He'd tried, a couple more times. Let's get coffee, come with me to the hardware store. He could only call Luke so many times to get him to bring things over like some sort of personal assistant. And he didn't want to call Billy, because he didn't want to hear what Billy's opinion was on this whole…situation.

He'd tried again with Buddy, thinking maybe bringing her dad back over would help again, but last night when Buddy had come over, he'd asked Lyla in vague terms when she might be ready to see someone again.

I think it mortified her more than anything, that he would suggest such a thing, he thought. Lyla clearly loved Michael Kelly, and she clearly was not ready for anyone or anything else to come into her life in that manner.

Tim just hoped that he could bring her up to…to being able to take care of herself again.

While it seemed like she could, he also woke up that morning to the smoke detector going off, because she'd woken up in the middle of the night and couldn't go back to sleep without her Ambien, which he'd hidden in his room, and she decided to bake cupcakes.

But she'd fallen asleep out on the porch, with that book in her lap.

Or the day before, he'd gone upstairs, seeing water seeping onto the hardwood from her bathroom. He'd crashed open the bathroom door and found her sitting in an overflowing tub, completely oblivious.

And burnt, because it had been scalding.

Two weeks, that's how long she'd been back in his life.

And despite some of those moments, when she was sobbing and screaming and acting like a two-year old or sitting comatose in front of the television, there were good moments.

Moments like on the lake, where she'd managed to tell him how she met Michael. Or like the night before, when they were watching _Guess Who's Coming to Dinner _and she'd joked that compared to when she brought him to dinner with her father and Michael, things had gone more smoothly than in that movie.

Or like when he'd found her on the phone, talking quietly with her doctor, telling her she was doing fine, that she didn't need the anxiety medication anymore.

Hell, even when she was sparring with Mindy, bringing up the idea of being a stripper, just to piss them off. It was good. That little bit of fire in her eyes.

Fresh air, Garrity. It was amazing what it could do.

Because I know I am barely doing all I can.

Maybe he was helping. He just…he tried to feed her when he can, he didn't put up with her childish moods, as much as he wanted to give into them, and he let her cry when she felt like she had to cry. They fought like they were dating again, which he found amusing, because she didn't seem to get it.

Put your damn boots in the mudroom, I keep tripping on them on the stairs.

Stop coming into my bathroom and using my toothpaste, go buy your own.

Do you laundry.

You do your laundry.

He wasn't sure what they were going to do today. There was some stuff he had to do outside, so he might as well get a start on it. If he went outside long enough, she might come after him. She'd sit in a chair and write in that freaking novel of hers, but she'd at least be outside.

It was her birthday in three days.

I should think of something to do for her. Right now, she hadn't said a word, but…he also knew that she was approaching what would have been her due date. He figured that there would be a day of mourning for that, which he would help her with.

Several minutes later, he was wearing ripped and dirty jeans and a grass-stained white t-shirt, working in the backyard on ripping out old scrub trees. He wanted to clear a line from some of the ones around his house to the hill and put a path, so he could have a lookout area and put some chairs and maybe a firepit.

He also had to start the dock.

He jabbed the shovel into the dirt, digging out the stump of one the trees. Damn, it was really in there, he thought, tossing his hair from his eyes. Stupid hair. He really needed to cut it. He wasn't in high school anymore. The long hair thing was not for old dudes.

Not that he was that old.

He reached into his pocket, removing a piece of leather string he used at the construction site, tying back his hair from his face and leaning back over the stump, pushing his foot into the spade and rocking the handle backwards to keep digging it out.

"You need flowers."

It's alive.

He didn't made a big deal about it. "Yeah?" he called. He smiled at her. "You want to plant flowers for me?"

Lyla shrugged, nodding towards the back of the house, where yes, he had several flats of flowers, but they were for Mindy. He'd gone out yesterday, testing the notion of leaving her alone, which had gone fine. He'd forgotten to take the flowers to the house. He was also nervous about leaving Lyla alone for longer than a few hours and he certainly wasn't going to bring Lyla over to the lion's den.

Especially when there were babies about in that lion's den.

He nodded to the flowers. "Go get them."

"I'm not dressed for gardening."

"So get dressed."

Forget the trees, he thought, tossing the spade aside and climbing up into his truck, driving it back around to the driveway, with the trees he'd already uprooted in the back; he'd take them to the compost pile at the nursery tomorrow.

He hopped out of the truck, walking around the back, where Lyla was wearing a pair of ripped jeans, tennis shoes, and one of his t-shirts. She looked down at the flowers, shaking her head. "You don't have gardening tools."

Maybe he'd go to the nursery now.

"Get in the truck."

"Tim."

"Let's go, you want to plant flowers, we'll plant flowers." You're out of that damn house, off the couch, and away from the TV. You can go out…it'll be good. He smiled at her, nodding again to the truck. She nibbled on her lower lip, clearly thinking about it.

Until she finally smiled, following him and getting in after him.

They drove in silence to the nursery, where he dumped the trees and she went browsing. He found her in the middle of one of the rows, with one of the little carts, several trays of flowers in the bottom. They were all very bright and colorful. Lots of reds and purples.

He picked up a pot, holding it out to her. "This looks like something in Jurassic Park."

"Cool," she said, smiling a little and taking the pot. She glanced down at the flowers, whispering. "I got petunias. I like petunias."

Get whatever you want. He set the Jurassic Park plant in the cart, walking with her down the aisles. Flowers were not his thing. He didn't get it, but if she wanted to put a million flowers and turn his house into a freaking rainforest, have at it. If it made her happy.

And right now she was breathing normally, she wasn't favoring her hand, and she even had her hair pulled up, revealing the scars on her neck. Part of him wanted to ask her why she never had them removed. Plastic surgery could do anything. Knowing Lyla, she kept them as reminders.

She stopped in front of a huge rosebush, touching one of the thorns. It pricked her finger and she stared at it, smiling slightly at the drop of blood. "You okay?" he whispered, standing on the other side of the table of flowers.

"Fine," she laughed, shaking her head, reaching down to lift up the rose bush and dumping it into the cart with the rest of her flowers. She sighed, smiling at him, her head cocked. The ponytail on the back of her head swayed lightly with the movement.

It seemed like she was telling the truth.

I'm fine, she repeated, pushing several more trays into the cart. She took them into the greenhouse with more plants and she piled on more. Things called bluebells and violets and lavender and she got spices and herbs and vegetables.

This is going to cost me a fortune, he thought, chuckling a little when she started piling them on the counter at the register. He pushed his hand through his hair, but still smiled, seeing her face as she told the woman at the register that she wanted to use the spices to cook and she couldn't wait to see the rose bush bloom.

It was too late for the rose bush to bloom. He knew that. She probably knew it too.

They'd put it in the house, he thought. It could bloom there.

He helped her put everything in the back of the truck, returning to the house. Once there, they got everything out and stacked it on the porch, along with her gloves and hat and trowel and all other tools she said she needed.

"You ready?" he asked, pulling on a pair of gloves.

Lyla nodded, shaking her hair out and tying it back. She smiled again. He'd seen her smile more in the last couple of hours, being outside with the sunlight and air, than he had the last few days. She knelt down and began to hack at the dry dirt.

He stood aside, watching her. She'd be fine, so he'd leave her. He was going to go back out to the trees, to continue hacking them up, but a car coming up the driveway tore his attention away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lyla lift her head a little, but she didn't turn completely around. She was in a little world, with her flowers. He wanted her to stay there. Tim approached the car, seeing Billy climb out, wearing his standard Dillon Panthers football coach outfit. "What's up?" he asked.

"Where have you been? I've been calling you for two weeks! Everyone's saying that…" Billy trailed off, staring at Lyla, who had taken off her hat to rub the back of her neck and reached over for her flowers, starting to set them into the fresh soil she'd laid down.

His brother immediately swiveled towards him. "So the rumors are true. You're hooking up with Lyla?"

Oh for the love of…

Tim grabbed Billy, pushing him away from the house, off of the driveway and far out of earshot from Lyla. He did not want her to hear anything that his brother might say, because it was sure to send her into the house and into the first bottle of pills she located, whatever they might be.

He spun Billy around, ignoring his brother's shouts of protest and questioning. "This is not about sex," he snapped to Billy. He pushed at his shoulder again, hoping he got the point. He hissed. "Her fiancé and baby were killed in…well I don't know what, I can't get that out of her and Buddy just says it was 'act of violence.'" He put quotes around the phrase, which was surely something a cop told them.

Touching his neck, he pointed out where her scars were, whispering. "She had her neck cut, Billy. She's got this scar that goes down to her shoulder. She hurt her arm and still thinks it hurts her. She had to have her kid cut out of her to save her life and he died, Billy, because it was too soon." I hope like hell you're getting this, he thought, staring at Billy's wide-eyed expression.

Good.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping with the expulsion of breath. "She's messed up Billy," he whispered, his hands going to his hips, glancing towards the house, where Lyla was still planting flowers. He turned back to Billy. "You should have seen her house," he whispered.

This was the first time he was telling anyone else. It…it actually felt kind of good. He didn't know what to do. He shook his head again. "It was like…Billy I don't know who she is most of the time. She cries and she yells and she just…I mean…"

Billy shook his head quickly. "Tim, you're not a doctor. You are not a…a shrink person who can help this, you need to put her in a hospital or something!"

"No." I'm not a doctor, but I know that much. A hospital wouldn't give her what she needed. He mumbled, digging his toe into the dirt. "She's not crazy, Billy."

"Sounds like she might be Tim."

"I disagree."

"Well it doesn't matter if you disagree Tim. This isn't you coming back from prison and hating the world, saved by Tyra's bonking you for a few weeks…"

"Hey!"

Billy ignored him, continuing and pointing back to the house. "This is someone who lost more than you did Tim. She's crazy, Mindy said she overheard at the nail salon that in the grocery store she freaked Mayor Rodelle out and that when you guys went to the mall in Westerbee she had like a complete nervous breakdown and she said that when she came over here the other day, Lyla told her she wanted to be a stripper." He blinked, pointing towards Lyla. "Lyla Garrity wants to be a stripper, Tim! Something is wrong in the universe."

Tim glossed over the stripper comment with a wave of his hand, what he was more concerned with was, how the hell did this town know all of what Mindy heard in the nail salon? It had been two weeks. Information ran like the plague, Tim thought, sighing in frustration. He shook his head once again, ignoring Billy's logic and shaking his head. He was about a second away from shoving his fingers in his ears and running away going 'la la la la' at the top of his lungs, when Billy said something he actually kind of agreed with.

"But Tim…" Billy scrubbed at his face, mumbling. "You guys…I don't know what's going on with you guys. I never really did, I mean…you're Tim and she's Lyla and she's…prissy and…"

She's not prissy, stop saying she's prissy. Tim rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything, focusing on Billy's earnest, concerned expression. Say what he wanted about his brother, but Billy did love him. It just often came out in ways that most wouldn't call love. "And," Billy continued, shrugging, his voice dropping a whisper. "I suppose there are worse people who could help her."

Thank you. I think.

Tim swallowed hard, nodding, his hands remaining on his hips. "Billy," he whispered, his voice cracking a little. He released a long breath, lifting his face to the sky. He closed his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing, but…I think it's working."

"You think?"

He nodded quickly, turning around and watching Lyla moved around the flowers, a smile on her face. He pointed, whispering. "Two weeks ago she wouldn't even smile. Two weeks ago she wouldn't get out of bed, Billy. Maybe people think she's crazy, but…she's been through a lot and she needs…something different."

Billy frowned. "You're not going to…you know?"

Good Lord. "No," Tim snapped. He rolled his eyes. "I'd appreciate it if you stop making comments like that. This is different."

"Yeah because unlike Tyra, you're in love with her."

"Shut up, no I'm not." I'm not in love with her. She's Lyla. I have a history with her, but I'm not in love with her. He closed his eyes, whispering. "She had a fiancé, Billy. If that guy was still alive, she'd be with him, about to give birth, and I wouldn't even be a thought. Okay?"

"Okay, but you know, he isn't alive. It's been what?"

"Five months." That was not near enough time for her. Not that he wanted anything with Lyla. He hadn't even thought of it until Billy showed up with his ridiculous worldview.

Tim was about to say as much, when he heard a scream from the house. "Lyla!" he bellowed, taking off like a shot. Damnit, what did she do? Cut herself on the trowel? Have a memory of something while she was planting the flowers? Shit.

He ran around the truck, stepping back when water from the hose, which was flying about in the air, sprayed across his chest. He laughed, seeing Lyla screeching, trying to get control of the hose. The water pressure, shit, he forgot to tell her that the water pressure was off, she had to let him know so he could fix it before she used the hose.

She giggled, soaking wet, her hat down gone, as well as her gloves, and her hair streaming down her back and across her face. "Make it stop!" she yelled, screaming when the hose got her again.

"Hang on," Tim laughed, running around to the house and turning off the water. He watched the hose fall back to the ground, the water tapering off. He gestured towards it and glanced back at her, still laughing. "The water pressure…you can't…can't turn it all the way on…"

"Sorry," Lyla said, smiling a little. She reached up and pushed his hair from his eyes. "You're soaking."

"So are you."

"Yeah…" Lyla glanced down at her outfit, which was now ruined with grass stains and mud. She didn't care, standing there happily, her feet sinking in the muddy grass, growing more mushy by the second as the hose continued to pump out water, just at a slower rate.

She smiled again, whispering up at him. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

What was that supposed to mean? He simply nodded. Yeah, sure, quite a pair. He pushed a leaf from her pale face, wiping some of the mud off her neck, his fingers skimming over the scar.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she sighed.

Uh-oh.

Tim immediately dropped his hand to his side, swallowing hard. "I'll let you do your flowers…thing…yeah." He picked up the hose, shoving it into her hand and backing away, glancing at Billy, who was standing at his open car door.

What? Stop looking at me like that Billy.

Lyla waved, completely oblivious to the tension. "Hi Billy!"

"Hello Lyla, how are you feeling?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, annoyed by that question. "Fine," she shouted, turning around and returning to the flowerbeds.

Billy gave him another look, smiling. It pretty much said 'sure, sure, whatever you say Tim.' He got in the car and turned it on, backing out of the driveway.

Tim sighed, glancing at Lyla, who was happily watering her flowers. Damnit. His stomach started hurting. It hadn't been like that since…shit. Since high school.

He groaned, shoving his hands over his face.

Stupid Billy.


	10. The soul-breathing glance

_**10. Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,  
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.**_

"Happy birthday to me," she mumbled, staring at the ceiling.

It was like four in the morning.

Not once did she think about going to search for her pills; she didn't know where most of them were, but she suspected they were in Tim's room, somewhere. She didn't want to go in there and find them.

John would have been born, probably. Or a week away from joining the world.

John Timothy Kelly. JT. Jack. Whatever they ended up calling him, he would be her Little John, and he would have been beautiful. He was beautiful. She got to see him for a few minutes, before they took him away. Barely eighteen weeks; they said that it would be a miracle if he survived, but it was…possible.

He'd barely had a chance; he was too little, his lungs were practically non-existent. He weighed almost nine ounces. He was barely the size of a can of soda, she thought, remembering him, in the incubator.

I just wanted him to survive; they'd already told her that Michael was gone. He was dead the minute he hit the ground. She'd seen him, the blood pouring from the wound in his stomach and neck.

I hope the two hundred dollars in his pocket was worth it, she thought idly, knowing the man who had done this to them was in prison, but…she couldn't…think…she couldn't think of the trial. It would be in several months.

Happy birthday to me, she thought, turning on her side, slowly standing. She wrapped the t-shirt she'd stolen from Tim around her, shuffling out of her bedroom. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Late summer storm.

I always loved summer storms.

Right now, she didn't like it at all. She stood in the hall, a bolt of lightning lighting up the house, followed immediately by a clap of thunder. A chill ran down her spine. I don't like this. It was raining that night.

She flinched again at another clap of thunder. The entire house seemed to rumble along with it. Very slowly, she turned towards the double doors at the end of the hall, her hand touching the door handle. It would be invading his privacy. It…it wouldn't be…

Very slowly, she pushed down on the handle, the door creaking open. She stepped into the bedroom, leaning against the door and peering into the bedroom.

It was an absolute mess.

Part of her wanted to start cleaning it. She stepped completely into the room, glancing at the bed in front of her, where Tim was asleep, hugging a pillow and lying spread-eagle on his stomach, the sheets torn up around his feet.

I hope you're at least wearing briefs, she thought, walking over and pulling up the covers, sliding beneath them, her head resting on the same pillow as his. She turned her head, watching him sleep. He barely moved at the slight motion of the bed.

What the hell am I even doing, she thought, her fingers clenched around the blanket pulled up to the center of her chest. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it.

Beside her, she felt him shift, trying to roll over, but he just encountered resistance. His eyes opened slowly, blinking a few times, and watching her. "What are you doing?" he mumbled, his head against hers. He sighed again, pointing towards the door. His voice was adorably husky with sleep. "Go back to your room."

"No," she breathed.

"Lyla."

Stop calling me Lyla. You never called me Lyla. I'm not going to break because you call me Garrity. It wasn't like he hadn't called her Garrity since she'd been back here, but…he didn't do it often.

It had been two and a half weeks. Closer to three weeks.

Didn't he have a job?

I don't want to go back to my real life, because I don't even know what that life is, she thought, reaching her finger out to stroke along his collarbone. It wasn't sexual; right now she couldn't even think of anything like that between them. She just…she wanted to be next to someone.

Call it personal growth; two and a half weeks ago she couldn't even handle going to the doctor's office, because there were too many people around her.

She spread her hand over his heart, listening to it thud beneath her hand. "It's my birthday," she whispered. She closed her eyes. I'm 26-years old. How can I be 26-years old and be where I am in my life? Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head, whispering. "I don't feel twenty-six…I feel like I'm…six."

And scared of thunderstorms.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the room. She closed her eyes tight, flinching at the thunder that soon followed, instinctively moving closer to him. I'm sorry, she thought briefly, when he stiffened. He relaxed a moment later, his arms going around her.

I feel better now.

She sighed, her face pressed into his neck. "It's my birthday," she repeated.

"Hmm…I know," he mumbled. He sighed, smiling a little at her. He lifted his head up a little, glancing at the alarm clock before settling down beside her again. He mumbled. "You know it's almost four-thirty."

Yeah, I know. Her fingers rested on his arm, which was over her stomach. She fluttered her eyes shut, imagining, just for a moment, that things were normal and they were a happy couple on her birthday, waking up early…

Until her eyes opened and she knew that wasn't true.

My birthday, she thought again, reaching to cover her face with her hand. Michael used to wake her up with breakfast on her birthday. Every year he'd get her a charm for her bracelet; she'd kept it hidden in her tote bag and hadn't brought it out but two times since he died.

The last charm had been a ring. To go with her engagement ring. She wiped at her eyes, her voice thick, but surprisingly, she wasn't crying. The gnawing, sick feeling in her stomach was no longer there when she thought about it.

Almost five months.

"Stay here," Tim mumbled, a few minutes later, when she was drifting off into a weird sort of sleep. Like she was half conscious and half…not conscious. She shifted, rolling onto her stomach and taking the pillow he vacated. It smelled like peppermint.

It was the gum he chewed from time to time. And his toothpaste. He was obsessed with clean teeth; one of those funny little quirks that she'd discovered when they started to date. She sighed, her eyes closed again, drifting off in the big bed. It felt much larger than her bed in the room next door.

She felt like it was hugging her, as silly as that sounded.

About an hour later, she woke up, surprised that she'd fallen into such a deep sleep so quickly, turning a little at the sound of the door opening and the smell of…well it smelled like cinnamon and chocolate.

"Happy birthday," Tim sang, carrying in a tray, setting it down beside her. He smiled, sticking one of the roses from the bush they'd gotten a few days ago in front of her nose.

It tickled, she giggled, turning her head a little and looking at the spread on the tray. "Wow," she drawled, sitting up on her elbow, taking in the chocolate chip pancakes and the cinnamon rolls. Like when she was a little kid and it was her birthday. Her dad would make this all for her.

Reaching for one of the rolls, she pulled it apart, turning it towards him. "Still doughy."

"They're better that way," he covered quickly, taking a bite and smiling. He nodded towards the pancakes, shrugging a shoulder and mumbling through cinnamon roll. "Pancakes might be watery too, I think I measured wrong. Why don't you get box mix?"

Box mix isn't the same, she thought, smiling and taking the fork off the tray, which wasn't so much a tray as it was a large block of wood with two smaller pieces beneath it. She was about to cut into the pancakes before she realized that he was reaching over with a lighter, three candles stuck in the center of the pancake.

Tears pricked into the corners of her eyes. She bit her bottom lip, watching as the little flames flickered on the candles, lighting up his face, his eyes dancing on hers. The glow did something, she thought, smiling slightly, the curve of her lip not making it to her eyes, but she didn't need to grin broadly or laugh or…or anything.

Thank you, she thought. It was the first birthday without…without the guy she loved. The first birthday after that tragedy five months ago. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, thinking of a wish.

I wish it would get better.

She blew out the candles, clapping her hands and falling backwards, giggling. "Happy birthday Garrity," Tim drawled, removing the candles and passing her a fork. He picked up his fork, smiling at her from his stretched out position across from her.

Lyla rocked forward; her legs crossed Indian-style in front of her. She took the fork from him, squeezing her right hand around it. There was no pain anymore. She transferred it to her left hand and cut into the pancake, scooping it up and taking a bite. Good.

Chocolate was always good.

She swallowed a few more bites, her stomach rumbling. I'm so hungry, she thought all of a sudden, taking another scoop of pancake, ripping it almost in half and taking a large bite, moaning as the chocolate melted onto her tongue. Oh my God, that tastes so good.

Tim lifted his eyebrows, setting his fork down. "You okay?"

"Hungry," she mumbled. Ravenous, even. Like if she didn't eat she was going to pass out. She hadn't felt like this in…in months. She spoke through forkfuls of pancake, her voice fast. I'll probably end up choking to death or something. "I've been here three weeks, right? Yeah…three weeks. I don't know what's happening to me, I didn't…I never did, but…oh my God, these are good!"

He smiled slightly, but it didn't meet his eyes. He swallowed hard. "Yeah? Good."

"And I like planting flowers you know?" she chattered, her mind racing. It was hard to figure out what she wanted to say first all of a sudden. Just that she had words that she hadn't said in five months and she wanted to get them out. Things she'd been thinking for three weeks and she hadn't said anything.

I never liked flowers before. Thought they were cool, but I never liked them the way she did now, with her fingers in dirt and doing something…just…doing something! It was releasing. Freeing. I like the air out here in Texas. I like the sunrises and sunsets and I like how it's five in the morning and there's a thunderstorm and the sun will be out in a few minutes.

So she told him.

She rattled it off, all that was in her head. Like a bag of crazy. She told him about how she didn't want to go back to Nashville. How she missed Michael. How he got her a charm for her bracelet every single year. How John's middle name was going to be Timothy, because she just wanted him to have a name he could be proud of. How she sometimes still thought she had a baby in her stomach and woke up and it was all fake.

How terrified she was to go outside for almost two months, fearful that if she went into a dark alley she'd die. How even now she didn't like going out at night and how come he hadn't noticed that by now. How the two men who were responsible for the violence were in prison, but she still had to go to the trial and she didn't want to, she was scared.

Scared of so much.

The first birthday without him.

Lyla talked until she couldn't talk any longer, falling backwards into the pillows, her eyes drooping shut.

The hunger was gone, but the ache still remained. It just wasn't as…sickening.

When she closed her eyes, she felt Tim leaning in and kissing her forehead, assuring her he would be there when she woke up, so she wouldn't have to be scared any longer.

I like this bed a lot, she thought briefly, falling back to sleep.

And when she woke up again, several hours later, she realized that she'd slept for about ten hours total. Oh my God, she thought, climbing out of the bed. She felt shaky, not used to this…feeling.

I feel good.

Lyla left Tim's room, going into her room and changing. She went downstairs, wearing a pair of jeans and a Dillon t-shirt, her hair pulled back. In a mirror, in the front hall, she caught sight of the scars on her neck. Her fingers touched them.

A plastic surgeon was one of the things on her to do list, but…she didn't want any more surgeries after the ones she'd already had on her arm and…and the baby and…everything. I have no money. Lost my job, so I don't have health insurance…

They reminded her of what she went through.

She released a long breath, tearing her eyes away from the reflection of the woman in the mirror. The thin, drawn, and sad looking woman.

"You're awake!" Tim exclaimed from the kitchen, closing the freezer. He gestured towards it. "Don't look in there."

"What are you making? Beer popsicles?"

His eyes lit up, like he hadn't seriously thought about that. "Beer popsicles," he mused, smiling slightly. He grinned. "I like it."

She chuckled, walking around the kitchen island and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sweet man. You're too good for your…well your own good. Her hands spread across his back and shoulders, trying to wrap as much of him up as she possibly could. Thank you, she thought, her eyes closed tight, savoring the hug.

Tim kissed her neck, squeezing her tight. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you."

He let go of her, leaning against the counter. "So I know your dad wants to see you…think you're up for a few visits today?"

Lyla smiled, her eyes crinkling. I feel up to 100 visits today. Believe it or not. She nodded quickly, whispering. "Yeah, I feel good. Where else are we going to go?"

Tim collected his keys and sunglasses, passing hers towards her. He walked to the front door, holding it open for her as they stepped out into the sunlight. It was hot and humid from the early morning storm. "I have this…I think you might need something, so…I'm going to give it to you."

I need a lot Tim.

They said nothing, driving away from his house and going through town. She ignored more people looking at her. I know I'm this anomaly. I rarely venture beyond Tim's house. I'm this crazy lady with scars that can't be seen on my skin. And some that can.

Where are we going, she wondered, glancing sideways. "Tim?"

"Just sit tight Garrity. Relax. We're getting you a gift."

My gift.

She smiled, wondering what it could be.


	11. The first kiss of love

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! Unsure if people are still reading this story- I know it's a tad darker than anything I've written, but it gets lighter. Enjoy! :)

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_**11. From what blessed inspiration your sonnets would flow,  
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love**_

The truck came to a stop in front of a freestanding building over near the high school, about thirty or so minutes after they left his house.

It was one thing she couldn't really get used to; how far out from town he actually lived and how long it took to get from his house to somewhere that used to take her minutes from where he used to live.

"We're here," Tim announced, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Lyla blinked, staring at the sign. Seriously?

"Tim?" she questioned.

"Come on," he said, climbing out of the truck.

This…this was not what she expected, Lyla thought, walking into the shelter with him, stepping through a door with one of the volunteers and staring at the rows of kennels, with dogs and puppies yipping when they saw potential owners.

A puppy.

"Pick one," Tim told her, his arm going around her shoulders, kissing her forehead. He leaned down, whispering. "I need a dog, but…you need something too."

Something to mother, she thought he was saying. She felt that ache in her gut. A smile flirted on her lips and she took off her sunglasses, putting them in her pocket and walking through the rows, leaning down to let the dogs lick her fingers, their tails wagging in happiness.

I want to take them all, Lyla thought, unable to pick one she liked.

Until she saw him.

He was droopy, that was her first thought, with sunken, sad eyes, and drooping ears and jowls. He lifted his paw up, scratching at the chain-link door. He tilted his head back, letting out a sad, mournful little howl.

This is the dog version of me, Lyla thought, approaching the basset hound. He was small, probably not full-grown. The tag on the door said that he was six months old; he was found wandering the highway, probably dumped by a trucker.

I have to have him.

Abandoned on a street, alone and forgotten, with sad eyes.

It's me.

"I want him," she blurted out, her fingers creeping into the kennel, rubbing at his ears as best as she could. She didn't look up at Tim or at the volunteer who had been walking with them, to let out a dog if they found one they liked.

The volunteer cleared her throat; her nametag said 'Olivia.' "I can bring him out into the play yard and you can see how you feel with him…"

"No, you didn't understand me," she said, still not looking up, her eyes meeting the dog.

He just stared at her and she swore he smiled, when he dropped his jaw, his tongue lolling out, panting. His tail thudded lightly on the ground. His head was dark brown and so were his ears, but his nose and neck were white with spots. There were black and brown patterns along his back and haunches, but his entire underside was white with spots. Tricolor, the card said.

I need to name you.

A smile pulled wide on her lips. You're mine. "I want this one," she said, her voice clear. This is my dog. My sad, small little puppy.

Tim cleared his throat, gesturing to the kennel. "You heard the lady. This one."

He knelt beside her, nudging her shoulder, smiling. "Whatcha' gonna' name him?"

"Byron," she whispered.

"Byron?"

"Lord Byron." Her eyes closed, her words floating over him. "_Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey_," she quoted, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She smiled, turning her face towards him. "Beautiful, huh?"

He lifted his shoulder, a muscle ticking in his jaw. For a second, he just stared at the dog, while the volunteer opened up the kennel to bring him out. Tim stood, helping her up to her feet. He glanced down at her again, his hazel eyes on hers. They were deep and sad, similar to the basset hound.

They saw everything. Even when he was this inexperienced kid, he always acted like he'd seen the world. Sometimes Lyla wondered if he really had, in some past life or something. "That means love will conquer all or something, right?" he whispered.

In so many words.

It means love will always be there; love can even be in places where wolves are afraid of going. It's strong; it can withstand anything and go anywhere. You can't stop its reach.

The volunteer, Olivia, emerged from the kennel holding the dog, Byron. "I guess he's yours," she chuckled, when Byron began to squirm, trying to get out of her arms and into Lyla's.

Yes, he's mine.

Lyla carried him out of the kennels, while Tim filled out the paperwork and paid the adoption fee. He came out of one of the offices, about thirty minutes later, holding onto a collar and a leash, clipping it around Byron's neck. "Guess we gotta' go get him some food," he drawled, scratching at Byron's ears, the dog's eyes thudding shut in pleasure.

What a nice birthday gift. She lifted her eyes to Tim's, which were still focused on the dog. "You bought me a dog for my birthday," she whispered.

Tim lifted his eyebrows, shrugging. "Guess I did."

"No one has gotten me a dog for my birthday."

"I should hope not, otherwise you'd have, what? 30?" he teased.

She rolled her eyes. Not quite 30. It was just…she shook her head, kissing Byron's face, smiling into his soft fur. My puppy. You're mine.

Byron lolled his head back on her shoulder, allowing Tim to scratch at his long neck. He let go of Byron, reaching to wrap his arm around her shoulders, walking back to the truck. "Let's get him some food, we can stop at your dad's house on the way back home."

I don't really want to see my dad. Why do I have to go see my dad? "Because it's your birthday," Tim replied.

"Stop reading my mind!"

"Garrity if I could read minds, I'd be a millionaire."

I just want this birthday to pass without incident.

They went to the pet store, getting everything and anything for Byron, and then went to her father's house, where Buddy treated her like she was glass and was going to break, which wasn't true at all.

It did go without incident.

They got home, they got Byron situated in his new home, and then Tim surprised her from what he'd shoved into the freezer that morning, which was an ice cream cake with a picture of a cartoon dog on it and her name and 'happy birthday' spelled out in pink icing.

You silly, sweet man, she'd thought, kissing his cheek and giving him a huge hug for thinking of something like that. She hadn't had a birthday ice cream cake since she was a little girl.

Then the idiot had to put on exactly 26 candles and made her blow them all out, making a wish.

And she wished to be happy.

It was all done without incident.

Until that night.

Lyla was sitting out on the porch swing, watching Byron sleeping on his massive inner tube bed. She sipped at her beer; she didn't really want it, but she was thirsty and found it in the fridge. Drinking didn't do anything for her anymore.

She glanced down at her book, finishing the thought she'd been writing. The book had been helpful; she just wasn't sure what she was doing with it anymore. She'd figure that out when she finished it, which she didn't think was going to happen, because she had another blank book in her bag upstairs.

The door opened, closing quietly behind Tim. He held a bottle of beer in his fingers, walking over to join her on the porch swing. He was barefoot, which was rare for him. The buttons on his shirt were almost all undone, except for two and he looked tired.

I'm wearing you out; I know I am, I'm sorry.

I need to start thinking about packing out of here. Three weeks. I just don't want to go home right now. Home. That bungalow in Nashville wasn't her home. It was Michael's home. She'd moved in with him after he bought it. She glanced at Tim, who was leaning back, his ankles crossed and his neck bent back over the porch swing, which let his hair fall back.

The lines were relaxed around his eyes. He was peaceful.

I don't think I've ever seen him so at peace. Except maybe on a football field or…or just sitting by the lake, but this…this was different.

This was real. It was where he wanted to be. His dream.

Texas forever.

"I…" she began. She nibbled on her bottom lip, taking a sip of beer for liquid courage. She sighed hard. "Thank you. Thank you for my birthday today, I…I needed it and…and thank you."

That's all I think I can say here.

Beside her, he shifted, turning a little towards her. The swing shifted. "You're welcome," he breathed, his hand falling down to her knee, squeezing lightly. He smiled, his eyes still closed. "I'm glad you had a good day."

And you mean it.

Lyla covered his hand on her knee, her fingers threading through his. It felt nice, to just sit here together on the swing, lightly pushing back and forth. She turned her face towards him, her eyes fluttering shut, breathing lightly. It was really, really nice.

To be with someone.

I just want to be with someone.

Someone who doesn't think I'm crazy. Who doesn't think I'm this lunatic who lost her fiancé and baby and is afraid of cramped dark spaces. I stopped the pills, which was good. I stopped thinking my arm was always hurting.

Am I getting better?

"Tim," she mumbled. She sighed, her eyes opening slowly, focusing on his, which were now on hers. He said nothing. She shrugged, whispering. "Do you think I'll ever be able to love someone else again?"

That was a stupid question to ask him.

"Nevermind."

He frowned a little, but said nothing. That was a really, really stupid question, forget I asked it, she thought, hoping he was reading her mind. She closed her eyes. I can't even think of loving someone else again. "I was with Michael longer than I was with you or with Jason…I didn't start dating him until two years after we became friends and met at the bus station." That was the best love. The one built on friendship.

So I guess I wonder, especially on days like a birthday…how I'm supposed to move on from that. She closed her eyes. I miss him.

I miss him, she thought again, turning her face, her hand reaching up for Tim. She felt by instinct and memory, her lips brushing over his.

Oh my, she thought, her eyes fluttering open briefly, meeting his. He just stared at her for a second, until she did it again, just to see if it was the same feeling. That jolt down to her toes. The second they touched, she practically crawled into his lap, her hands gripping at the back of his neck, and her lips open hot against his, moaning as he pulled her closer.

Oh my God, she thought, feeling his fingers in her hair, and smoothing down over her back, gathering at her shirt. This feels so damn good. It was like a drug. She grabbed him tighter, wanting more, more, more. She tore through the open part of his shirt, touching his chest, gasping at the intense…burning she felt all through her body.

Her hands slid down to his belt, beginning to fumble with it.

Until suddenly she realized something wasn't right.

Tim was pushing her away, his hands breaking from her body, and his face somewhat horrified. She stared at him, stunned.

That was close.

But why…she felt her shoulders lurch a little and she lifted her hand to her face, covering. She cried, tears on her face, and she fell backwards from him, sobbing.

"I don't…" she cried, shaking her head and leaning into him, pressing her head into his neck. He stiffened and then wrapped his arms even tighter around her, rocking with her on the porch swing. I don't know why I did that. I guess I just wanted this so much. Just wanted someone.

She sniffed; his fingers wiped at her eyes and pushed the tears from them. "You miss him," Tim whispered, touching his forehead to hers. He shrugged. "And you miss your…miss your baby."

Yes. She smiled a little, but it was just…no, that wasn't all of it. Yes, she missed Michael. She missed the idea of her life…she wanted her baby back. That was true.

"You were kissing him."

I was kissing…she looked up, her face impassive. How dare you.

He nodded again; he was convincing himself. "You were kissing Michael. That's what this was."

I was…she frowned again.

I was kissing you.

Not Michael.

She waited a beat. Seeing the pain in his eyes. It was easier for him to believe that she was kissing her dead fiancé. He had to believe it. Or else…or else what Tim, she wondered. She didn't want to think about it. She swallowed hard. "Yes," she whispered, nodding her head, taking what he was trying to tell her. Her voice was dull. "I was kissing Michael."

They both stared at each other for a few more minutes, until Tim took a step towards her and lifted her from the porch swing. "Come on, I'll take you inside."

I don't need you to take me inside.

Lyla wiped at her eyes again, turning her head and seeing Byron waddling his way towards her, following them up the stairs. She stopped outside of her bedroom door, looking at Tim, who just seemed…sad. She touched his face lightly, dropping her fingertips to his chest, lightly brushing it as she turned around, going into her room with Byron.

And she slowly closed the door behind her.

Where she slumped down to the floor, holding her face in her hands, but she didn't cry.

Maybe I am getting better, she thought with a chuckle, shaking her head.

Before she hit it backwards into the door, groaning.

Or maybe not.


	12. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art

**A/N:**I've decided to just kind of push this story out quickly, because it's not getting the hits that my stories usually get, so I'll just finish it up quickly and probably take a break. Thanks to those who have reviewed. Enjoy :)

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_**12. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art, Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove; **_

I cannot believe you kissed her.

Idiot.

Tim shoved a scoop of dog food into the bowl on the counter, knowing that Byron was quivering in anticipation at his feet. He glanced down at the basset, which began to 'talk' to him, little yips and barks and groans, talking about…something. Maybe how hungry he was, who the hell knew what dogs thought.

He ran his hand over his hair, kneeling down and setting the bowl of food on the placemat that Lyla went and bought, with a smiling dog on it, next to Byron's water bowl. It was covered in scattered dog food, water, and drool. Byron was a messy eater and drinker.

Maybe this was the dog version of him, as Lyla had teasingly said the other day.

"Go to town," he advised the dog, who was taking the advice to heart, and getting back to his feet, looking through the closed French doors at Lyla, who was on the swing, writing in a new hardcover book, this one had a bunch of flowers on the front cover.

What was she always writing? He still didn't know.

Three and a half weeks. More like four weeks. A month.

It had been four days since her birthday, when she'd kissed him on that same porch swing. She'd been sad, celebrating her first birthday; a year growing older, while her fiancé and child would never be able to do that…with her or themselves. She was still mourning, that's what this was about.

I have to get her out of this house again.

The kiss had kind of…he didn't know what it was with her. He had a weird feeling, the moment he said that she was kissing her fiancé, not him, that she seemed…annoyed. Her brow had kind of wrinkled in a frown. It didn't matter though, what Lyla thought it probably was, he thought it was her kissing Michael, and missing him and it was.

This isn't about me.

His cell phone rang on the counter, buzzing across it, and forcing Byron to lift his head from the bowl of food, his ears lifting like an elephant's. "Not for you," he said to the dog, lifting the phone up.

Tyra.

I've been ignoring her too long. She's probably going to get on a plane out here if he kept ignoring her more.

Fine.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"Oh my God! It's alive! Call the newspapers, Tim Riggins actually answered his cell phone when Tyra Collette calls!" Tyra shouted, sarcastic. He could actually 'hear' her roll her eyes at him. "The hell Tim? I hear from Mindy, I hear from Billy, and I even hear from Julie Saracen that you're…shrinking Lyla Garrity."

"That better not be a word for another word."

"Euphemism?"

He waved his hand. Whatever. He didn't want her making it sexual or anything. "I'm not sleeping with her," he whispered, if that was the direction Tyra was trying to take this conversation. He wanted to say 'I'm not you', but he figured that would just make her angry and she'd probably try to kill him through the phone.

Tim let his gaze linger on Lyla for a few more seconds, finally tearing it away and walking out of the kitchen into the living room, falling backwards into his chair. He sighed harder. Tyra was still his friend. Still his sister-in-law.

She might have been a female version of him, as Mindy had said one time, and which was why they didn't get along very well beyond a few days together. They were too alike. They'd kill each other. But…she still knew him better than most.

Probably not as much as Lyla did, at one point, although now he wasn't sure he could say that anymore.

And that was why she was calling; to check on him.

"I'm just trying to help her Tyra, nothing more than that," he whispered. He continued, before she could interrupt. It wasn't her business, so he'd keep it simple. "Tyra, she was a mess. She could barely function without…without pills or something, but she's better now. She's not drinking, she's not taking the pills to sleep or for anxiety, and…and I haven't taken her outside in the dark yet, but…but I think she'll be better than she probably was…Tyra she lost her kid."

"Jesus."

Yeah. Not many people knew that. He nodded quickly, whispering. "They had to deliver him early and he didn't live…I don't think. His name was John. She…she lost her fiancé, Tyra. I couldn't just…ignore it."

"But Tim, this is something a professional…"

I'm not a professional, but I've been there. "I was there Tyra," he said, his eyes darting towards one of the large windows, watching Lyla writing. He sighed hard. He didn't have to tell her.

Tyra released a long sigh. "Yeah Tim, I know you were there, but you were out of prison. Your biggest problem was Billy and…and finding yourself again. Not mourning the loss of a child and lover…I hear that the guy is in jail or something?"

Two of them.

Lyla didn't talk about that. Didn't talk about having to identify the two men who attacked her and Michael in the street, two drug addicts who had just been denied a score, so they needed cash quick. Buddy had told him that they were both on drugs, they had knives, not guns, and they'd held Lyla at knifepoint, but Michael tried to fight back and got several stab wounds for his troubles, killing him.

When Lyla had tried to pull away, Buddy told him, that's when she'd had her neck cut. The paramedics arrived in time after someone looking out their window saw it all and called.

That was all he knew.

He didn't know the terror she surely had felt. Or the pain. Maybe she wasn't ready to talk about that yet. Or ever. He didn't expect she would. Not for a while. Not with him.

He nodded briefly, whispering. "Yes. Two guys. I don't know when the trial starts, but…she's gonna' have to go back and relive this whole thing again."

And I guess I'll be there, when that happens.

"How much time off from work did you get?"

"Six weeks."

"You have two and a half weeks Tim. Lyla probably needs two and a half years."

No, she doesn't. You're underestimating her.

Tyra continued. "Tim, she's mourning. If this is about your…or you…" She paused. It was obviously hard for her, whatever she was going to say, but Tim said nothing. He wanted to hear her say it. She sighed. Her voice was barely audible. "If you think she's going to get back together with you…"

"No."

I'm sick of people insinuating that. Billy had. Mindy had. Now Tyra. He half expected Buddy to start with it. That wasn't true. I love her, fine. "You want me to say that?" he whispered.

"Say what Tim?"

He closed his eyes, shaking his head on the chair. Damnit. Tim got up, his voice dull, quiet. "You want me to say that I'm in love with her?" he whispered, leaning against the doorway, watching Lyla some more. He pushed his hand up to his hair, raking it back again, sighing hard. "Do you want me to say that Tyra? That I'm doing this because I love her?"

"Do you?"

"Do you really want to know?" he retorted.

"Tim, that's not…I mean…" Tyra groaned. A thud sounded through the phone; she probably knocked her head into a wall or a table. She groaned again. "Tim I helped you, I did. Because I couldn't stand what I was seeing. It wasn't you. You didn't undergo the tragedy and complete psychological meltdown that Lyla probably went through! You cannot compare them! A few rolls in the hay for good times is not going to make her feel better!"

"And that is not," he snapped, offended by the insinuation. He bit out his words, angry. "That is not what this is about Tyra. I'm sick of it. She's hurt. She needs a friend. I'm a friend!"

"You're in love with her!"

"So what if I am!" he exclaimed. He didn't mean to say that, he thought immediately, but it was too late. All he wanted to do was try to convince the one person he thought might actually understand. "I'm trying to help her and since I brought her back from Nashville, she's laughing," he laughed, smiling wide and thinking of that first laugh he heard from her. Or the smiles when she was in the garden, puttering around. Or running around with Byron.

Or when she just broke down in his bedroom, on her birthday, telling him everything that she could possibly tell. How she ate nonstop that day, like she'd woken up from a deep sleep and needed the energy.

He felt his voice crack and his eyes still on her. Fine, he was in love with her. It was almost impossible not to be in love with her. "And she's smiling Tyra. She's not…she's not on the drugs anymore. She doesn't wake up screaming every single night like she did the first week she was here. She doesn't go into these trances anymore where she leaves the stove running or the water flooding everywhere…Tyra, she's getting better."

And that was good enough for him.

Maybe I don't know what I'm doing. At all. Maybe I'm doing this day by day, hoping that by getting her to plant flowers or get a puppy or something would actually help and it seemed like it really was.

Hell, Tim Riggins did something right, he thought.

The front door rattled, breaking his train of thought. "I have to go," he whispered. "Someone's at the door."

"Bye Tim. Just…be careful. I don't want her to break your heart because she…or because you just aren't being careful." Tyra sighed again. "Contrary to those who may think otherwise, I do love you very much. I just don't want you hurt."

Advice taken.

Tim tossed the phone aside, walking to the front door, wondering who it could be. He pulled open the door, revealing two people he really did not expect. His eyes widened. "Coach!" he exclaimed.

What the hell?

"Hey Tim!" Mrs. Taylor exclaimed, stepping beyond the threshold to hug him tight. "How are you sweetheart?"

"I'm…fine." What the hell? He shook Coach's hand, giving him a half-hug. Still wondering what you guys are doing here. He glanced down at Byron, who was woofing about their feet, tail wagging and nose permanently stuck to the floor, sniffing their shoes. "Um…not that I'm not happy to see you guys, but…"

Eric turned around, chuckling. "Yeah, bit of a surprise. We were in Austin for a job interview, came out to check on Matt's grandma, figured we'd stop by."

"And I heard that Lyla Garrity was staying with you," Tami whispered, her arms wrapped around herself. She smiled warmly, but her eyes were sad. "I saw the news, about what happened to her…just…devastating. Is she around?"

Yeah. He gestured to the back of the house. "She's outside. She's…doing better."

It wasn't like she was in a coma or anything.

The back door opened, before they could go outside, and Lyla stepped inside, closing it behind her. "Hey Tim, do you think maybe we could go…" She trailed off, seeing them all. Her eyes lit up. "Mrs. Taylor! Coach Taylor! What a surprise!"

Tami rushed towards her, wrapping her arms around Lyla. "How are you sweetheart?"

"I'm fine, thank…" Lyla swallowed hard. Her voice dropped. "Thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent…they were appreciated."

"Of course," Tami whispered, rubbing her upper shoulder. She cocked her head, whispering again. "You look really good. Are you going to go back to Tennessee?"

Lyla shrugged, turning to meet his eyes. "I don't…don't know, but…maybe." She took a deep breath, slowly letting it out and gestured to the fridge. "Tim why don't you…get some drinks for everyone? We can go sit outside. Um…are you going to be at the football game tonight? Tim, I thought maybe we could go."

That's what you were going to ask? Tim shrugged. "If you want."

"I do. I…I want to go outside."

At night, she was trying to tell him.

Hell yeah Garrity, we'll go outside at night. Anything you need. Or want.

He saw the fear cross her eyes, at the notion of it, but they'd be okay. Take baby steps, he thought, reaching for her. She let go of Mrs. Taylor, immediately taking his hands in hers, whispering. "I want to do it, you can't stop me," she hissed.

"I'm not going to stop you," he chuckled, knowing that Coach and Mrs. Taylor were probably a little confused. He needed to give her something to do, so she didn't dwell. "Why don't you get the drinks and I'll go outside with Byron and Mrs. Taylor and Coach, okay?"

"Okay," Lyla whispered, letting go of him and walking to the fridge.

He led everyone outside, closing the door behind him, gesturing to the old iron table and chairs that Lyla had found at a garage sale about a week ago and just 'had to have.'

He hitched his thumb back to the house. "Night is going to be interesting," he said, smiling briefly. He leaned on one of the chairs, while Tami and Eric took a seat, both of them leaning back, waiting…on something. He blinked a few times, smiling briefly.

Better get to what they both wanted from him, he supposed.

"She writes in a book," he whispered, looking at Tami. "That normal?"

Tami nodded quickly. "Yes," she whispered. She smiled warmly. "It's actually quite healthy. A mechanism, to write about your feelings, so they don't get bottled up. It's been how long since…"

"Five and a half months," he whispered. He closed his eyes. "She should have a two or three week old by now."

"Goodness," Eric mumbled. He shrugged. "Well you're doing good, son. This house is beautiful and…and I hear you're a foreman now, over with the Everly Brothers construction company?"

He nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. He nodded to the house. "I'm on a six-week break, but…I have to get back soon."

"You still helping out the Panthers?"

Tim shrugged. Not as much anymore. "Billy's got it under control."

"Scary statement."

Terrifying. Tim smiled, looking up when the door opened and Lyla came out, holding a pitcher of something yellow and four glasses. "You made lemonade?" he asked, frowning.

"Why do you think I made you buy sugar and lemons?"

"I thought you had a craving for something sour."

Lyla chuckled, rolling her eyes. "You're an idiot." She poured the glasses, taking one and smiling over at them all. "To mental health," she said, taking a long sip before she clinked it with anyone else.

He just looked at her, while Tami and Eric just stared, unsure whether it was a joke or not. She chuckled. "Kidding! Come on! I'm not crazy," she laughed, taking another sip of her lemonade. She sat down at the table. "So how are Julie and Matt?"

"Ah…" Tami trailed off, dropping her eyes to her glass. She took a deep breath, smiling again. "They…they just got married."

Lyla's smile flickered and her eyes darting away. It's okay, he thought, reaching to touch her hand, assuring her it was alright. She turned her hand over, squeezing his fingers quickly. "That's wonderful," she whispered. She took another sip. "Marriage is…nice."

Tim kept his mouth closed, glancing at Tami and Eric, who both exchanged a look. "It was a…small service," Eric whispered. He shrugged. "In Chicago."

"That's nice," Lyla said, her fingers tightening around the glass of lemonade. She took a deep breath, her voice soft. "I was going to get married in Nashville…on the bridge…after we had our son." She smiled a little, turning the glass around, whispering. "My son's name was John. John Timothy."

What?

Tim glanced at her, but said nothing. He didn't know that. He took a sip of the lemonade, making a face. He hated sour drinks. He set it back on the table. "You okay?" he whispered, making sure.

"Fine. I'm fine, seriously." Lyla laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She released another sigh, the muscles in her neck cording slightly. "I'm actually thinking of moving back to Texas, I…Mrs. Taylor I know you have contacts, do you have any at UT? I'm thinking of returning to graduate school."

I didn't even know what you did in Tennessee. I thought you'd already gone to graduate school.

Tami swallowed her sip of lemonade, nodding as she set it back down on the table. "Of course I do sweetheart, let me just…" She removed her phone, beginning to scroll through, speaking a mile a minute. "I've got contacts in the admissions department for graduate and undergraduate, but…depending on your field of study, I have a couple in the colleges."

"I was thinking about English," Lyla whispered. She picked at the edge of the table. "I'd like to write."

Writing. You do seem to enjoy writing.

Tim stood up, touching her shoulder comfortingly. "I'm going to be with Coach, I have to talk to him. Okay?"

"Fine."

He walked off the porch with Eric, heading towards the hill sloping down towards the pond. They began to talk about the construction on the house, with Byron wandering around their feet, sniffing for bugs.

It turned into football, about the Panthers' prospects of State that year and Coach talked about the culture in Pennsylvania, how different it was, but it was kind of refreshing to be on a break for the last few years. Not wake up at two in the morning to Buddy Garrity calling about some recruit or another.

Finally, Eric asked about Lyla.

"Are you going to be watching her forever, Tim? At some point she's going to have to leave," Eric said, quiet.

Yeah, at some point, she would. "She's not going to leave until she's ready," he answered. That's what he was…working towards. He closed his eyes. Coach could know everything. Anything. He felt his shoulders slump, like he was being deflated. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing with her Coach."

I feel like if I screw this up…I don't even know what might happen.

So I can't screw it up and I don't know what I'm doing. I've been wandering for the last three and a half weeks. He shook his head again, laughing slightly. "Coach I'm trying with her…she's off the pills, she's not screaming at night, but…"

Eric drew in a deep breath, smiling. "Tim, I know you've heard this before, but…you did good, when you got out of jail. I mean…you got better and I'm sorry that I wasn't there to truly help you. I really am, honestly."

I didn't need you to be there all the time Coach, he thought, but said nothing, watching Eric as he knelt, picking up a long blade of grass, beginning to shred it. "But Tim, what you're doing with Lyla…I think it's admirable. To help someone who truly needs it and you might not believe you're doing anything to help, but you are. You're a good man Tim."

A good man.

Thank you Coach.

It sounds better coming from you.

He closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands. I just feel like I'm going through motions. "I don't know anything I'm doing," he whispered. He sighed hard, feeling exhausted. "What if I make a mistake?"

"Maybe you will," Eric answered. He smiled briefly, lifting a shoulder. "But Tim from what I can see, she's doing fine. I'm not a psychologist, but the trained counselor up there will do her thing and let you know if you've really messed her up, but…hell, taking it on yourself…that's an admirable thing son."

That's what people have said.

"I'm just trying to help a friend," he whispered.

"And that's what you should do."

He smiled a little, glancing back at the house. Lyla was showing Tami her garden. He would have to get the kids over to the house to help with it when she left. Whenever that was. There were tomato plants growing; he thought it was too late in the season, but it was still warm. They'd have to move some of them inside.

The herbs she'd gotten were in the windowsill in the kitchen. They made the place smell nice.

She'd hung pictures on the walls in the living room.

And she'd organized his laundry room with baskets for whites and darks.

Hell, she'd even cleaned out his closet.

Don't know how I'm going to live without her, but I'll make do. Had to let her go eventually, because she was getting better, there was no denying that. Lyla was learning to live without her fiancé and without her child.

"I just hope I could help a little bit," he whispered, still watching her with a smile.

Coach chuckled. "You always helped more than you realized Tim. You're very good at it."

Thank you Coach.

That's a very nice thing to say.


	13. I court the effusions that spring

_**13. I court the effusions that spring from the heart, Which throbs, with delight, to the first kiss of love.**_

You're okay.

It's just darkness.

And not even really that, because of the Jumbotron and the floodlights and the crowd and everything…it wasn't even really darkness.

She sat next to Tim, practically on top of him, watching the football game. It was getting cool at night, so she'd put on the flannel shirt he had on when they got there, while he remained in a Dillon t-shirt.

You're okay, she thought again, repeating it to herself.

In front of her, the Riggins kids were fighting over who got the last of the popcorn. She smiled at them; they all looked like Billy, it was kind of freaky. They were sweet, just getting cranky because it was getting late. She leaned forward on her knees, smiling at one of the twins, Samuel, or Sammy. "You know, the bottom of the popcorn bag isn't the best."

He froze, turning his head and blinking at her. She continued, whispering so only he could hear. "Yeah, it's yucky. The popcorn is all bad and small and just the kernels."

Sammy smiled again, giggling and tossing the bag to his twin, who was on the other side of Mindy. Nicky took the bag, but he'd heard her say it was yucky and gave it to Stevie, who just started chowing down.

She smiled, leaning back against Tim. That wasn't so bad. She had to get used to the fact that there were children out there. It just wasn't her son's time to be born. God had other plans.

Whatever those were.

Not that she was…she'd tried to recover from pain by turning to religion. This time she didn't even try; she just went straight to something else. Pills. Denial.

Oddly enough, the Riggins kids were helping her from going crazy in the darkness.

She released a long breath, glancing at Tim. "I have…have to go to the little girl's room, I'll…be right back."

"Okay." He looked at her, a mixture of concern and fear. "Are you…"

"I'll be fine." I can go to the bathroom on my own. I think.

Lyla walked down the stadium steps, waving at Tami and Coach, who were seated behind the player's bench. She smiled at a couple others who waved to her. They all gave her these looks of pity and apology. Guilt, in some cases. It pissed her off to no end.

She took slow, painful steps out of the stadium, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her breath began to come in shallow gasps and it felt like her heart had suddenly sped up to about a hundred times a minute. Deep breaths Garrity, she thought, closing her eyes and taking another step towards the restrooms, which were on the other side of the stadium, behind the concession stands.

There weren't any lights over them, she thought, seeing the burnt bulbs. Just dim lighting coming from over near the parking lot.

It's okay.

She ignored the sounds of people, as best as she could, her feet quickening towards the door. You can do it, you can make it, she recited, letting out a sob the second she got to the door, whipping it open and stepping inside the well-lit area.

Oh God.

Reaching up, she flicked the lock on the door, her eyes closed and hand pressed to the steel door. I can't believe…I did…did that…she practically hyperventilated.

She turned around and pushed her hands through her hair, suddenly no longer needing to even use the restroom. I have to get my heart under control, she thought, leaning over the sink to wash her hands. The cool water on her wrists seemed to help with slowing it.

I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm in Dillon.

After a few minutes, she stood in front of the door, her eyes closed. It was time to go back to your seat, she said to herself. "You can walk out there and go up and sit down," she spoke out loud. It didn't help any.

Her fingers closed around the handle, pulling it open. It seemed even darker now. The path between the stadium and the wall on the opposite side seemed narrower.

Why the hell aren't there any lights, she wondered, stepping out and jumping at the bang the door made when it slammed shut. She blinked, walking slowly towards the lights. Just walk to the lights.

There were footsteps behind her.

_Michael, we should…we shouldn't be here._

_Michael I'm sorry I said we should go this way, we should turn around…Michael there are people coming towards us, come on, let's go!_

_Relax Lyla, you worry too much. This is a shortcut, you said so yourself, come on. It's nothing. _

Her breath came even shallower. Help, she thought briefly, hearing the footsteps. She quickened her pace, but it was like a cone of darkness, the lights were tiny and so far away. Help, she thought again, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

She felt the cold knife against her throat. Her hand went to it, trying to fight it off, but she cut her hands. She cut her arm. He broke her arm. The knife went across her neck.

A blinding pain and she fell onto the wet pavement. Rain was falling down on them.

Michael was staring at her, blood in his mouth, coughing. He couldn't speak, his hands on his stomach. Blood pouring from his fingers. They took his wallet and her purse and ran.

Help.

She fell to her knees, sobbing. "Help," she sobbed. The word she was trying to say, but she couldn't. Her throat throbbed. "Help!"

"Oh my God, it's Lyla Garrity, someone go find Tim Riggins!" she heard someone yell.

I don't know who it is, she thought, feeling someone trying to reach for her. There were a few other people who ran towards her, asking if she needed something to drink or anything, but she just remained on her knees in the dirt, sobbing and hyper ventilating, trying to breathe, but she couldn't.

Help, she thought, over and over, sobbing.

Until she saw Tim suddenly in front of her, reaching for her. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, realizing the situation. How embarrassing…I can't even go to the damn bathroom at the stadium without having a breakdown.

She reached for him, feeling him lifting her up like she was an infant. Mindy yelled at people to get out of the way and stop looking, to mind their own business. Thanks Mindy, that doesn't make it worse.

"Baby, I'm here!" Buddy yelled, hurrying towards them. He reached for her while Tim tried to put her in the truck, Tami and Coach behind him. "Oh my God, Tim what were you thinking!"

"I was thinking I'd try to help her," Tim shouted at him, buckling her seatbelt. He smoothed his hand over her face, whispering. His face softened. She covered his hand with hers, focusing on his face. He smiled, whispering. "I'm going to take you home."

Home.

"I'm…" She took a long, steadying breath, now that she was in the truck, away from the darkness, the corridor…the images of that night fading. She swallowed hard. The anxiety attack was fading. "I'm okay."

"Sweetie it'll be good to get you home, okay? Tim, take her home, I'll be by tomorrow, let me know if you need anything tonight," Tami said, reaching to squeeze her hand, assuring.

"Tim Riggins," Buddy tried, but stopped at the look Tim gave him. He sighed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, tears in his eyes. "Baby I'm so sorry it has to be like this. I just want to help you."

You all can help me by just leaving me alone and stop turning it into a scene.

Lyla turned her head away, staring out the windshield as they drove away. She shook her head again, whispering. "I'm sorry, I just…it was like I was there again…just walking in that dark…area."

"You came out, that's good."

But I had a panic attack leaving the restroom, Tim. That's bad.

They didn't speak of it until he got her into the house. She went straight upstairs to the bathroom, getting in the shower. It was a need to feel clean. The psychiatrist from Nashville told her she might have it a lot, especially after the nightmares and the panic attacks.

She stepped out a few minutes later, tying her hair back and changing into an oversize t-shirt and sweatpants, stepping into Tim's room, where he was on his bed, scanning his phone and leaning over his knees. "Hi," she whispered.

He glanced up, deleting something from his voicemail and tossing the phone onto his nightstand. "Hi," he replied.

You're not going to ask me if I want to talk about it, she wondered, remaining in the doorway, her toes rising back to scratch at her calf. She swayed lightly for a moment, whispering. "Can I please come in?"

"Yeah," he whispered, seemingly surprised she asked.

Well you never know.

She hurried over to the bed, crawling up to the head of it to sit behind him. He stretched back on his elbows and kicked off his boots and socks, rolling onto his stomach. He just looked at her. He wouldn't ask. He'd just let her sit here all night without saying a word.

A strand of wet hair fell in her eyes. She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut. "Have you ever felt like you were going to die?" she whispered. She swallowed hard, opening her eyes, focusing on his. "Like your heart was going to give out right that moment, because you were so scared?"

He hesitated, his forehead wrinkling, until he bit down on his lower lip, nodding quickly. "Yeah," he whispered, reaching to pull at a thread in one of the blankets on his bed. He shrugged a shoulder, trying to act nonchalant. "Couple times."

She smiled slightly, whispering. "Don't say it like it's common Tim. Most normal people who live normal lives have never felt like they were going to die." She shrugged, drawing her legs beneath her and leaning back against the headboard. "When did you feel it?"

Tim moved, shifting so he was sitting beside her on the bed. They always took the same positions. He was always on the left side of the bed, if you were looking down at the headboard. She was always on the right. They fit perfectly.

He closed his eyes, his head resting on a stack of pillows beside her. "Well," he began, his voice soft. He shrugged, whispering. "The first time was the first night in jail…you don't…you don't want to know what that was like, just…wondering what the hell I'd done with my life."

I'm sorry. She lowered herself down a little, her knees drawing farther up. Byron wandered into the room, hopping up onto the bed and settling between the both of them, falling asleep almost instantly.

She listened, intently, her eyes closed, as Tim told her about prison. He paused, several minutes later, his voice sticking slightly in his throat. "Then it was after I got out…the nightmares. Still get them sometimes. Like I'm back there again…feels like I'm going to die, my heart's so dang fast."

"And you can't breathe," she whispered.

"No," he agreed. Tim looked up at her, his hand curving around hers, their fingers sliding together, squeezing hard. He shrugged, whispering. "You know Garrity, you're the only person who knows what it's like…so much, you know? Not just the…the anxiety stuff, but…but everything. Like with Jason."

That was years ago. We were different people.

He continued, his fingers squeezing tighter around hers. "And like when your…family kind of falls apart. You just deserved so much more than this place. You still do…"

Is that why you're helping me with my…psychosis? She bit her lower lip, laughing slightly, shaking her head quickly. "Tim," she whispered.

Tim shrugged. "I didn't want you to come back to Dillon…I mean…I did, I did want you to come back because I missed you so much. You were gone and then you were back and…it was so good."

That weekend was good. It was fun. It felt so good to be with him again, she remembered it like it was yesterday. She wiped at her eyes. "And then you didn't," she whispered.

He shook his head. "No, then I didn't. You deserve more than this Garrity. Even now, you…you deserve so much. Happiness. You need it and you deserve it."

"That why you're helping me? Because you think I need something good?" Lyla glanced down at him again. She shrugged. "That why Tyra helped you?"

Tim closed his eyes briefly. He whispered, after a moment of quiet reflection, swallowing a lump in his throat before he answered. "Tyra helped me because…you'll have to ask her. She stuck around. She was…like you were, for me, I guess…something nice at the time. It felt good…I wanted it to stick around, but…she deserves something better too."

And what do you deserve?

We've been talking about me pretty much the last month…what about you Tim? I'm not so self-absorbed to ignore it. Lyla picked at her fingernails. "So why are you doing this with me Tim? I'm…" She sobbed, wiping at her eyes. "I'm a mess! I'm…I can't even go to the damn bathroom at a football game without having a panic attack and…and I said terrible things to you when you were just trying to help…"

"You didn't know what you were saying."

"Yes I did, because I wanted someone else to hurt," she cried, burying her face into her hands. I wanted someone to hurt like me. You seemed so sure of what you were doing…I didn't want you to be. She hiccupped, reaching for him, and he was already pulling her into his arms. "I lost my fiancé, the man I loved and you…you're helping me when you don't have to."

"And I don't know if I can ever give it back," she whispered.

Tim ran his knuckles down her back. He sighed hard. "Garrity if you want to pay me back, you can…be happy again one day. Then you've paid me back."

I don't know if I can ever be as happy as I was again.

It's a hard thing to get back.

He brushed his lips over her hairline, whispering. "You smile now. You laugh. You're getting there. Maybe you need a few more weeks. Months. Years. Doesn't matter. You just are."

"And I don't know what I'm doing," he laughed, his forehead touching hers. He sighed again. His voice dropped even further, to a hushed whisper. "But I think if you're smiling, it's working."

If you're smiling.

She smiled.

He grinned. "It's working."

Thank you. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, whispering. "I love you." You're my best friend. She brushed her nose to his, still smiling. "Thank you."

He nodded briefly, kissing her forehead and wrapping his arms back around her, his hand stroking her hair and her head on his chest. "Don't thank me yet Garrity. I still have enough time to screw you up."

"I doubt that," she chuckled. She felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "Michael used to stroke my hair like that."

His hand stilled.

She sighed again, her eyes closing. "Didn't tell you to stop," she mumbled.

After a moment, he continued to stroke her hair, until her eyes were fluttering shut and she was falling asleep.

That night she didn't have nightmares.


	14. Your shepherds, your flocks

**_14. Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,  
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:_**

This was so strange.

She'd been alone for more than two hours.

Tim had called her; twice, but she knew he also had to work, so he was probably avoiding it as much as he could. She'd had lunch with her father, probably because he'd been told to act as her pseudo-babysitter.

It was nice, Lyla thought, sitting in the center of Tim's bed, looking around his room at her handiwork. He wasn't going to be happy with her, but she'd cleaned. She'd previously been in his closet, removing shirts she knew he'd had since junior high school. He'd thrown an absolute fit; he thought she'd been napping for so long upstairs, not cleaning his closet.

So now that she had the house to herself, since he'd gone to work again, she went straight to his room and cleaned his bathroom, vacuumed, which she'd had to have Buddy bring over because Tim only had hardwood, probably for the very reason of he didn't have to vacuum.

She'd found some containers to use as organizers, until she could get to the store and buy some baskets or something nice to hold his few personal effects. The room was very utilitarian.

It had a bed; it had a dresser, one chair, and his closet. That was it.

Lyla climbed off the bed, walking over to the window and peering out at the front part of the house. She frowned, seeing a nice looking car pull into the drive. Who was visiting her?

"What babysitter did Tim call now?" she asked, glancing down at Byron, who was passed out in a beam of sun. She leaned down to ruffle his ears, kissing the top of his head. He didn't even move. "Well I'm going to go find out, you stay here."

Byron opened one eye, before closing it.

She left Tim's room, sliding down the banister and off onto the floor with a giggle; Tim had no idea how much fun that was. Especially since she'd freshly polished it.

Lyla skipped to the front door, opening it without bothering to look. She had her hair piled up on top of her head, not bothering with how she looked either. She swung open the door, staring at the occupants of the car.

Mindy and Tyra.

Well this probably wouldn't end well.

She was feeling really good, especially since that moment when she'd had the anxiety attack at the football stadium. Tim had kind of forced her out of the house; even carried her at one point, when she'd gotten freaked out about what others might think of her.

You never cared before Garrity, don't care now, he'd told her. They went to dinner that night. She walked straight from the truck to the door in the pitch black. Didn't feel her breathing change once; she just kept repeating she was okay.

Now here was Mindy and Tyra…she lifted her chin a little. "Hello," she greeted them both.

Mindy was holding a bag on her shoulder, along with her purse, while Tyra just stood beside her, looking…very, very different, Lyla thought, taking in Tyra's appearance.

Tyra had always been tall, but she seemed even taller now. She wore flip flops with a pair of jeans, but Lyla couldn't see her midriff, since she was wearing a flowing pale blue top, which seemed to match nicely with her honey blonde hair, which had good highlights and lowlights, giving it a slightly brown sheen when she turned it into the sunlight. She wore a pair of simple earrings and watch, looking…

Mature, was the word Lyla would have pegged her on.

"What's up Garrity? You going to stand there catching flies or let us in?" Tyra demanded, walking up the steps and smiling at her before slipping beyond her into the house. "Holy crap, this place is clean!"

"Good for you sweetie, you deserve a medal for tackling this dump," Mindy said, patting her arm and reaching into her bag, removing a bag of marshmallows, giggling. "I don't have kids today! I'm not even driving!"

That must have meant it was okay to have marshmallows, Lyla figured, closing the door behind them, walking into the kitchen, where Tyra was making herself at home, clearly knowing where everything was.

Her stomach kind of turned at the reason why she probably knew where everything was. Not my business, she immediately thought. Tim told her their relationship was strictly platonic. For now.

She swallowed a lump forming in her throat, reaching for the bag Mindy had set in the center of the kitchen island, removing M&Ms, baked chips, and cookies. "So is this let's become diabetic day or…" she asked, glancing between the both of them. What were they even doing here?

Byron wandered into the kitchen, looking up at new people, woofing and starting to jump around on his short fat legs. "Tim got a dog too?" Tyra exclaimed, jumping back slightly when he wiped drool on her jeans. "Fantastic," she drawled, wiping it off with her hand.

She reached for the baby wipes she'd made Tim pick up at the store, leaning down to wipe off Byron's messy mouth. "Silly baby," she cooed. She straightened up, eyes blinking at Tyra and Mindy. Both women were giving her a strange look. "What?"

"Nothing," Mindy chirped, shrugging. She chuckled. "Just didn't think you were ever a baby talker to dogs."

"I'm not talking baby to him."

"Could have fooled me," Tyra said, pouring something bubbly into three juice glasses, before splashing in about a thimbleful of orange juice. "Here, this is an acceptable mid-morning drink."

"It's Texas, Tyra," Mindy said, cracking open a beer she just pulled from the fridge, pouring it into her glass.

"Mindy that is gross, mixing sangria and beer and orange juice."

"So is mixing sangria and orange juice."

"They're both fruit based."

Lyla listened to the two sisters bicker back and forth lovingly over the merits of drinking in the morning and what was an acceptable drink for it. She smiled, picking up her orange juice and sangria, taking a long pull. It wasn't bad. She set it back down on the counter, smiling again.

It'd be nice if my sister and I could act like that, but…they just didn't have a need to be close growing up. Tabby was so much younger than her. They also…well she also didn't have to lean on her sister, because that was the only person she had.

I kind of was on my own, I wasn't even close with both my parents, I just…thought my life was perfect. Lyla had come to admire Tyra, realizing what she'd gone through. Why she hated her so much in high school. It wasn't for taking Tim either, sophomore year. It was for other things.

Trust me Tyra, my life was not enviable. And Tyra had come to see that.

It was nice.

Maybe I should write about it, she thought, an idea forming in her mind. Two girls from different sides…like a prince and the pauper story or something…it was working in her mind, the possibilities of such a tale, when someone clapped their hands in front of her.

She jumped, clearing her throat. "Sorry," she mumbled, waving her finger near her head. "I'm just…in my own world."

"You okay?" Mindy asked, concerned. Tyra was watching her curiously as well.

I'm fine.

Lyla walked away from them into the living room, crawling into Tim's chair. She waited until the Collettes were seated on the couch and the loveseat respectively, scattering the food on the coffee table. Tyra reached into her bag, dumping out makeup of various sorts and running her hand through it, knocking it all over.

So apparently that's what we're doing today.

"I didn't think you'd want to go to the nail salon, so we brought it to you. A month in this place and you need something done to you Garrity," Mindy said, wrinkling her nose and waving her hand around in her general direction. "Something with all those lines."

Lines!?

Lyla touched at the corners of her eyes. Maybe she should get Botox.

"Don't tell her that Mindy! Now she wants to pump poison into her skin."

"It's not poison. They wouldn't have made it if they didn't want women to use it."

"Yeah, go ahead and apply that logic to everything in the world. Like nuclear weapons or something."

"Tyra, don't go all political on us."

Once again it was all entertaining to watch. For living with Tim in the last month and not really interacting with anyone outside of her tiny circle of family and the brief interlude with Coach and Mrs. Taylor, this was just…

It was refreshing, was what it was.

No one was treating her like glass. No one was trying to talk to her about her feelings. Even Tim could just be a brick wall. When he didn't want to talk, you couldn't get him to say a word. Lyla reached for a marshmallow, tearing it in half and taking the sangria combination drink, dunking her marshmallow in it.

It tasted like crap, but she also loved it.

She waited for Tyra and Mindy to die down with their bickering, which had ended up on Tyra's choice of graduate school, as far from Dillon as possible and why Tyra decided to do that. "Where do you go to school?" she asked.

"Columbia," Tyra answered, reaching for nail polish and holding up a couple of different shades. She swished her lips around. "I think you're more of an orange sparkles person today Garrity."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

I won't win this argument, so I'll shut up now. Lyla took another sip of her drink. She swallowed it hard. "What are you studying?" She was genuinely curious. Tyra had never seemed like a graduate school person to her. Let alone a school like Columbia. Her grades at UT must have been very, very good. Same for her admission tests.

"Public Administration."

"City government?" she asked, surprised. That was…different. She blinked a few times. "You want to work locally?" Come back to Dillon, then? That would make sense, per her arrangement with Tim. She could come back to Dillon with an advanced degree, knowing she wasn't the girl she used to be, and get a decent job. Maybe clean this place up some more….and have Tim.

Tyra shrugged, reaching to tie her hair back from her face. "Maybe. I'm also getting a Master's in Psychology."

Mindy smiled, proud. "My baby sister can't decide if she wants to be a mayor of a town or if she wants to be a psychologist."

"School counselor," Tyra mumbled.

Like Mrs. Taylor, Lyla thought. She patted her knee, prompting Byron to jump up into the chair with her, settling his head on her lap. She stroked at his long ears, leaning back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling.

"Don't worry Garrity."

Don't worry about what? About my life? There's plenty to worry about, I just don't care about it right now. I will one day though.

"Hmm?" she asked, glancing towards Tyra, who was studying her.

The other woman, her onetime…frenemy, Tabby called her once, just smiled. "Don't worry," she repeated, her voice dropping. "I have no plans to return to Dillon. You're safe."

Her cheeks flushed pink. "I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled. She rubbed at Byron's ears a little harder, her fingers trembling. She cleared her throat. I don't want to discuss this. "So…you guys want to make me over? How bad do I really look?"

Mindy sighed in relief that their discussion wasn't going in the direction that it looked to be going into. She launched forward, setting her drink down, giggling and grabbing a ton of makeup, hurrying over towards her and began to lift different eyeshadows and lip glosses up against her face. "I don't know, you're so pasty."

"I've been in my garden, I shouldn't be pasty."

"That's probably because you were ghost-like a few weeks ago and now you've worked up to pasty."

"You have a garden?" Tyra demanded, jumping from the couch. She ran over to the window, exclaiming. "Holy crap! Tim Riggins has a garden in his backyard! My God Lyla, what is he going to do when you leave? He's going to have to destroy a lot to get it back the way it was before."

Destroy.

I don't want a makeover, she thought, thinking of something she'd been asking Tim if she could do. He'd put up a fence in the back; split rail.

Hmm…

She cleared her throat, calling to Mindy. "Hold off on the makeovers, I have an idea." She got up, leaving the house and trotting towards the shed, opening up the combination lock and stepping inside, and over to the safe in the corner.

For someone who kept his front door unlocked most of the time, he was a very responsible person when it came to this, probably because the kids were around his house enough. She turned the first combination lock with the first code and then the second, reaching in and turning the handle.

It popped open, revealing the shotguns and rifles. She reached in, checked a couple and slung the straps over her shoulder, grabbing a few boxes of ammunition and marching from the shed and into the house.

Mindy saw her first, screaming and throwing her glass up in the air, sending sangria all over the hardwood. Tyra turned quickly from where she was snooping at the desk, dropping the checkbook in her hand onto the desk with a thunk.

She pursed her lips, waiting a beat. "Are you going to shoot us Garrity?"

"No."

"You realize that mentally unstable people should not even be thinking of guns, let alone holding one."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not mentally unstable." Anymore. That I know of. Lyla smiled, tossing one of the unloaded rifles at Tyra, cocking her head at the look of panic crossing the usually cocky woman's gaze. She smiled serenely. "Do you think you can outshoot me Tyra?"

Tyra arched an eyebrow, glancing down at the rifle and then back up. "You want this secret from Tim or not?"

"I'd appreciate it if we kept this between us three, yes."

No sooner had she said that did her phone ring. She looked down at the screen, seeing Tim's number popping up. If she didn't answer that, he'd come by the house. She held her finger up, reaching for the phone and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

"How you doing?"

"Just sitting here watching Byron sleep. Writing." Lying.

"Okay. I'll be home soon, what do you want for dinner?"

Like we're some old married couple. "Surprise me," she chirped. She waited a moment, as he told her that he would try to be home early, but he had a lot of work to get to. She still wasn't quite sure what he did. Just that this morning she woke up and the house was empty; there was a note on the fridge, saying he'd gone to work and would check on her through the day.

She said her goodbyes a moment later, turning the phone off and setting it back on the desk, turning around to face Tyra and Mindy again. "So? Are you guys going to shoot with me or not?"

Tyra and Mindy exchanged a look. "I don't think I've shot a gun since I was like twelve with Daddy, remember?" Mindy asked, glancing at Tyra, who just shrugged. She sighed hard. "Well, guess Garrity doesn't want makeovers, but we'll still get her later. You need to fix your hair Lyla."

What's wrong with my hair, she wondered, touching the dark braid slung over her shoulder. She frowned a little, turning around and marching out of the house towards the split rail fence marking off a bit of Tim's property. She set the guns down, returning to the house.

Several minutes later, she'd lined up several empty cans and bottles, loaded her rifle, and took her stance, peering through the sights. She smiled, depressing the trigger, hearing the satisfying clink of the bullet on the can, knocking it from the fence.

"Wow, you're a good shot Garrity," Tyra commented.

"I know."

Mindy was terrible, hitting the fence and the tree and the grass, but never the target. Tyra wasn't half bad, but Lyla was happy to see, a couple of hours later of laughing and shooting with them, that she won.

And she felt kind of good.

Mindy set her gun down gingerly in the grass, shuddering and trotting away on her high espadrille sandals. She shielded her eyes from the sun, gazing in her direction. "Okay Garrity, we're done being crazy gun-toting conservative prissies like you. Time to redo your whole…" She waved her hand in a circle. "Thing."

I still don't know what's really wrong with me. At least the bags under her eyes had gone away with the amount of sleep she'd been getting and the decent amount of food she now ate. Her face had filled out and she'd had to have Tim go back and buy her a couple more pairs of jeans and t-shirts, because she'd gained back the weight she'd lost. Not all of it, but enough.

She collected the guns, cleaned them, and put them back where she found them, knowing Tim wouldn't notice that he was missing about half the ammunition. He probably never went hunting anyway and that was his only reason for having them in the house.

After a few minutes, she steeled herself for dealing with the Collette sisters in their preferred element, and returned to the house, taking a seat in the armchair again, sighing and looking at Tyra, who was giving her a weird look. Mindy was nowhere to be found. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Tyra answered, smiling slightly. She reached for her sangria, taking a few sips, shrugging her shoulder, her voice quiet. "You just seem…happy I guess. Like being outside did something to you."

It does. It does something to me, yes.

She lifted her shoulder, whispering. "It's not hell."

That comment kind of surprised Tyra, who said nothing for a moment. She leaned forward, her arms over her knees, waiting a second, speaking quietly, so only the two of them could hear. "Tim told me you lost your baby…I'm really, really sorry about that, I mean…" She nibbled her lower lip, breathing deep, shrugging her shoulder again. It was awkward, but she was trying. "I mean…you didn't have the greatest growing up and then all this…I'm sorry."

It wasn't your fault. Besides, look at how our lives have reversed. She quirked her lip up for a brief moment, before letting her smile falter. "You don't want my life anymore Tyra. I don't think anyone wants my life…I mean…it's this never ending hole. But…seems like it might be ending."

"Tim kind of has that effect," she whispered.

Yes, he does. So does his house. And this land. Everything about it. About him.

Lyla nodded briefly, looking down at her chipped nails. Maybe she did need something new. Something bright or…happy. She cleared her throat, drawing her legs up beneath her, glancing up.

Tyra was looking at her scars.

She touched them, forgetting they were there. "Yeah," she said, smiling quickly. "Pretty nasty."

"He slit your throat?" she whispered. It seemed to make Tyra sick; the look in her eyes…her face was ashen. She swallowed hard. "And…you…your arm…"

"Dislocated it. Cut it. I had nerve damage, so…it's better now." It hadn't bothered her since she'd gotten here. Since Tim took away her pills and threw away the brace. She tossed her braid back over her shoulder, glancing down at her shoulder; if she looked out of the corner of her eye, she could see one of the puckered scars, but they'd mostly faded down her arm. They were just really noticeable on her neck.

Tyra sniffed, looking away, reaching for her drink. She gulped back the rest. "God, Garrity. You really just can't do anything half-assed, can you?"

No, I really can't, she thought, smiling briefly.

Until it was just a wide smile and she was laughing. "Not really," she answered. She looked up when Mindy stepped into the room. She sighed. "So are we going to remake me or what?"

"After I show you photos of the kids. You up for that? Gosh, I really need someone to watch them this weekend…" Mindy glanced her way, lifting an eyebrow. "If you're interested?"

Watching Riggins children for a few hours?

And not being babysitted by one herself?

I'm in, she thought, smiling.

Hell, she thought, closing her eyes and knocking her head back against the armchair. She felt so damn good.

And it didn't occur to her until about an hour later that Tim hadn't even been home all day and she was still feeling wonderful. Taking care of herself on her own…hanging out with other people…

I really am better, she thought with a giggle, pouring herself more to drink.

Even if she knew Mindy had switched out the sangria for just plain fruit juice.

Eh, maybe later she'd go out.

It would take some convincing of Tim, but she was sure she'd win that argument.


	15. What are visions like these?

**A/N**: Thank you for all the reviews! :) Enjoy!

* * *

**_15. Arcadia displays but a region of dreams; What are visions like these, to the first kiss of love?_**

"Come on," Tim mumbled, peering ahead of the traffic, wondering if he could just abandon his truck and get to the house. It had been over eight hours since he left Lyla, having had to return to work.

When he left her in the morning, she'd been asleep in his bed.

It was like Stevie or the twins when they had bad dreams and came to visit. He'd wake up in the middle of the night to her beside him, hugging her pillow and fast asleep. Not always, just enough to realize that she did it when she had a nightmare. Well, if it made her feel better, but he was starting to wonder if he should say something.

Mrs. Taylor mentioned that he might want to try calling a psychologist himself, to speak about how better to help Lyla, or if he needed to just talk about what he was going through while he tried to help.

I'd rather eat glass.

I'm not doing anything like rocket science. I'm just helping her.

He honked his car horn, anxious. He reached for his cell phone, which he hated to use when he drove; he was a distracted person on average anyway, let alone stick him in a moving vehicle with a phone. Oh well, he needed to make sure she was okay.

Buddy was supposed to check in on her; who the hell knew if he'd done that.

He heard the phone ring several times, going to voicemail. Nada. Damnit.

So he called Buddy. "Did you check on Lyla today?" he asked, before Buddy had a chance to even say hello. He was sure Lyla had mentioned it earlier, but he wanted to make sure.

"She's fine Tim, we went to lunch, she said she wanted to work in her garden and do some research on schools. She needs to go back to Nashville, Tim, have you given it any thought?"

Given what any thought? Dumping her in Nashville? "She hasn't said anything to me Mr. Garrity, I'm letting her decide."

"She might need to be pushed back there, just like she was pushed out here."

Then she'll let me know. Tim disconnected a few minutes later, after Buddy suggested he bring Lyla to bar for a drink later, just to get her out of the house again, since she hadn't been out since the football game, when she had the anxiety attack.

Again, she'll let me know, I'm not going to push her.

He managed to get around whatever traffic jam he'd run into, it was Dillon for crying out loud; they didn't have traffic jams! He couldn't even tell why everyone was stopped. Once he got out of city limits, he floored it, forgoing his vow that he wouldn't break any laws…now and then a traffic law was violated, but that was okay.

The truck came to a hard stop in front of the house, behind a rental car. Damnit, who was over? Did she get a car to drive on her own?

"Garrity!" Tim called, hurrying up into the house, hearing Byron woofing from inside. He pushed open the front door, dropping his dopey messenger bag full of plans and schematics on the floor, walking around the corner into the living room, where he froze in place.

What was going on?

Mindy, Tyra, and Lyla were all sitting around the coffee table, which had various…girl food laid out on it, along with some magazines and tons of makeup. "Hi," Lyla chirped, from her leg-crossed position in his La-Z-Boy. She turned a little to peer over the top of it, her chin resting on her folded arms, and her eyes sparkling. "How was work?"

"Fine."

"Are you wearing a collared shirt?"

He rolled his eyes, hearing Mindy call him a Bible salesman. Yes, he had to wear a collared shirt, along with jeans, and it had to be tucked in. Such is my life as a corporate drone working in the construction business.

Until he could save up enough to start his own.

He ignored Mindy's comment, looking down at the smiling woman in the chair. "You okay?" he whispered. He wasn't convinced.

"I feel great. Mindy and Tyra stopped by to see how I was. Tyra's in town for the long weekend. It's Columbus Day."

"I don't have class for another four days, so I thought I'd come see the family," Tyra piped up from the couch, holding a can of Coke in her hand. She smiled at him, waving. "What's up? How's it going?"

"Fine." He didn't really know what to make of this situation.

Mindy glanced at her watch, waving her hand at Tyra. "Ty-Ty I have to stop at work to make sure the schedules for the girls are all set up for next week and pickup my costume from the cleaners."

Tim rolled his eyes that Mindy was still part-time stripping, even when she really didn't have to anymore. Billy was the offensive coordinator for the Panthers and many were talking about him becoming head coach in a couple years. It would be a miracle if Dillon accepted that his wife was still a stripper.

Even if at this point she was manager of the joint now. She just did the side job "for fun." Whatever. Her life, not his business.

"Yeah, fine, but you know you can quit, right?" Tyra complained.

"It's fun," Mindy said in her defense. She leaned down to give Lyla a quick hug. "I'll see you this weekend! You sure you're okay with watching the boys?"

Watching the boys!? No, Tim did not think she was okay. Lyla nodded quickly, whispering. "Yeah, we'll be fine." She got up from the chair, smiling at Tyra and lifting her fingers in a small wave. "Bye Tyra. It's was nice seeing you."

"Yeah, you too…I'll see you later?"

"Sure."

Tyra smiled at Lyla, stepping around her without saying a word, but grabbing his upper arm, her nails digging into his skin. "Ow," he mumbled a few times, until she finally let go, once they were off the porch and Mindy was climbing into the rental car. "Let go," he hissed.

She turned on him, smiling serenely. "You know Tim, I didn't know what to expect, but if half of what my sister, prone to exaggeration, was telling me was true about Lyla Garrity?" She whistled low under her teeth, laughing. "You actually didn't screw up."

I'm not going to screw up on this, he thought, scowling. "Yeah, so?"

"I'm just saying, she looks pretty good. She's a little…" Tyra frowned, searching for the word. She sighed, shrugging her shoulder. "I guess…hard is the word, but…I guess she's not ever going to be the girl from high school."

No, she will never be the girl from high school.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder, meeting his eyes again. "I'm going to be at Buddy's tonight, just to get a drink and catch up with some friends from high school, if you want to come by," Tyra whispered.

He must have given her a strange look, because she immediately smiled, her eyes softening somewhat. "It's okay," she whispered, shrugging. "I know we're not…not going to be anything this trip. I really didn't think with Lyla around…"

Sometimes they were something. Other times they weren't. He figured it was more on her end than his. He bit his lip, nodding slightly. "I just…with Garrity here," he whispered, shifting his weight a little. Not like he really had to have an excuse, but…he felt like giving one.

Tyra nodded again. "Yeah. How's that going, by the way?"

How's what going? She waved her hand a little, when he frowned at her in reply. "You know," she whispered, shrugging it off. "The whole…you're in love with her, thing? You doing alright? With her being in the house so much and…needing you, I guess."

"I'm fine," he whispered, his jaw set and teeth gritted. I'm not going to break down because Lyla Garrity doesn't love me like that anymore. He scowled. "This isn't me getting into her pants Tyra. I told you before. Believe it or not, it's not just about sex with me."

"Forgive me for sometimes forgetting."

He rolled his eyes, pushing at her shoulder. "Go deal with your sister, she's going to make a mess in your rental car if you keep her locked up in there long enough."

"Shut up Tim, she's got three kids."

"And they're learning from her."

She waved, laughing and walking back to her car. "Bye! See you in a few!"

Yeah, I'm not so sure about that.

Tim turned around, returning to the house, where Lyla was washing dishes. He nodded towards the dishwasher. "I have this new machine that can do those on its own. I'm afraid one day it will rise up and attack me, but…"

"It's a dishwasher Tim, not a cylon."

He rolled his eyes. "You're never going to let me live that down."

"I came downstairs and you were watching Battlestar Galactica, Tim." She smiled slightly over her shoulder, whispering. "You're never going to live it down."

Yeah, whatever, it was a good show; he watched it when he was sick one weekend and there was nothing else on, so when it was a rerun, sometimes he watched it. He sighed, leaning his forearms on the kitchen island, watching her for a minute. The way the light fell on her neck made the scars seem to fade back into her skin. He pushed away from the counter, walking around it and reaching to pull her hair back from the scars.

Lyla stiffened. The water was still running. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"You don't hide these," he murmured, his fingers lightly covering them. She shivered beneath him. He sighed, letting his hand fall to her shoulder and down to the counter, turning to lean back against it, his arms crossing. Why, he silently questioned.

She turned off the water, shrugging her shoulders, whispering. "It was more surgeries that I didn't want to do…I think I'll go in and get them…covered at some point, but…I feel…" She bit her lip, glancing up at him, shrugging. Her voice cracked. "I feel like I still need to see them. To see something physical rather than mental."

They stood quietly for a few minutes longer. Byron started whining from his bed, watching the both of them. Tim sighed hard. "You want to take Byron on a walk? Maybe you can finally get me to watch that movie of yours tonight," he teased. She'd been on him to watch something called _Roman Holiday._

She shook her head. "No," Lyla whispered. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, turning quickly and lifting her eyebrow. "I want to go to the bar tonight," she blurted out, spinning away from the sink and walking to the stairs, calling for Byron.

The basset hound, while he appeared to be sluggish, was quite fast on his feet, jumping up and trotting after her, before bounding up the stairs.

The bar.

"Garrity!" he called, groaning and trudging to the stairs, yelling up them. "Are you sure? It's going to be loud! With drunk people!"

"If you don't want to go then you can stay. It's been months since I was in a bar. I want to see if it's the same."

It's been six weeks was what she was trying to say. It had been six weeks. Since he brought her to Dillon. How much longer, he wondered. The fact she wanted to go to the bar after previously having been completely uninterested was…good. He just was tired, he didn't want to go to the bar.

Several minutes later, Lyla jogged down the stairs, wearing a pair of tight black jeans with a white t-shirt and sparkly flats. She held a silver jacket in her hands. "I'm ready."

He smiled, amused. Always prepared, that was Lyla. "Well the bar doesn't open for the night business for a few more hours, so…why don't we just…" Tim took the jacket, setting it on the newel post and took her hand, leading her away from the front door. "Sit down for a second. I'm exhausted."

"Okay." She walked by him, sitting in his chair and tugging her book towards her. This was the third hardcover book she'd been working on.

I want so badly to know what you're writing, he thought, biting at his lower lip.

Only he wouldn't ask.

After about an hour or so, after he rested his eyes for a bit, and changed out of his 'Bible salesman' outfit, he leaned over her shoulder. "Okay, let's go to the bar."

"Just a minute."

Tim remained leaning over her, glancing at the book. He could read her writing. One sentence popped out of the page at him.

_I feel like I'm no longer this person I was before, but in a good way. I feel like I'm not losing Michael or John anymore, but…but they're just no longer fading, it's like they've disappeared completely, only their outlines are still with me. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it's a good thing I'm picturing other faces for my child, not Michael. Maybe it's not a good thing to whom the face belongs._

Lyla snapped the book closed, setting it aside. She got up, walking to Byron, whom she'd already fed and let out, giving him a kiss, promising they'd be back later.

They drove in comfortable silence to the bar; he didn't ask her if she was sure and she didn't ask him to stop nagging or anything of that sort. If she felt she was ready, he thought, sighing in reluctance, then she was ready.

He let her go on ahead of them, stopping outside to talk with some of the Boosters, who had come back into the fold with Buddy after East and West Dillon merged into Dillon again.

I wonder what it would have been like if there had been an East and West Dillon when I went to school…probably wouldn't have played with Street. Tyra and I would have been in the same classes the entire way up through school, but she wouldn't have been with Julie or Landry or Matt…maybe Landry because he'd gone to East Dillon…Garrity certainly wouldn't have gone there.

He wondered about that for a few seconds longer, going into the bar, scanning the busy space for Lyla. He found her at a high top in the corner, laughing with Tyra, a drink already at her hand.

The drinking.

Angela was tending bar that night; he leaned over, calling her towards him. "Hey," he greeted her, accepting the kiss she bestowed on his cheek. He jerked his thumb towards Lyla. "If I'm not around, you stop her at three."

"Tim, sweetie, no one like's a teetotaler."

"I'm serious," he whispered, hoping he was imparting that seriousness in Angela. The older woman winked, smiling at him. He grinned. "Please."

She waved her fingers at him. "You're too cute to say no to honey, of course I'll stop her at three. Of each or…"

He rolled his eyes, pushing back from the bar with a beer, walking over to the table. "This girls only or are boys allowed?"

Lyla turned, smiling up at him. "Whatever you want. I was telling Tyra about how you got me Byron for my birthday."

"Yes," Tyra mused, sipping her beer, smiling around the neck of the bottle. "Buying a girl a dog is a pretty big…gift."

Oh shut up, he wanted to say, giving her a warning look. She just grinned, probably glad to see she was getting to him. He nodded towards Lyla's drink, tall and clear. "What're you drinking?"

"Tonic and vodka with lime."

"Remember Tim?" Tyra said, chuckling. "Garrity drinks hard."

"Go big or go home," Lyla echoed, sipping on the straw, but drinking the vodka like it was water. I hope it is more tonic than vodka, he thought, glancing at Angela, who just winked and waved a bottle of water up in the air. He smiled a little, lifting his beer to her in acknowledgment. Good to know.

Lyla took another long pull from the drink, letting go of the straw. "So Tyra, what's it like living in New York? I was there a couple years ago visiting Jason. I loved it. Greenwich Village was my favorite."

They launched into a talk about New York, which he kind of tuned out, wondering when Billy would show up. If he did. He might have been watching the kids. He lifted his head when the door opened, seeing Becky and Luke enter. "Hey," he called, waving the beer bottle. "Over here!"

"Hey!" Becky squealed, running off to give him a hug. She wrapped her arm around his neck, kissing his cheek. "What are you doing here? I thought you gave up drinking?"

"Just drinking with you," he said, smiling at her. She annoyed him, but he did love her. Little sister only, no matter what some people thought. Mindy flat out refused to believe he never wanted anything more. He didn't. Honest truth. Okay, maybe once he thought about it, but then he'd freaked out, no way, she was too young.

Becky rolled her eyes, lifting them to Lyla, who was sitting quietly beside him. "Hello," she said, her voice soft. She wrapped her arms around her stomach; the swell a little noticeable now that she'd started wearing maternity clothes. "Lyla, right?"

He immediately looked from Becky's stomach to Lyla, who was looking at it and then lifted her eyes up. A muscle tensed in her neck. "Hi," she whispered, wiggling her fingers hello. "And yeah, it's Lyla."

Don't stare, Tim thought, lifting an eyebrow at Becky when she focused on the scar on Lyla's neck. Tyra reached over, flicking Becky's elbow to break her from staring. He wondered how well this was going to go now. He got up, shaking Luke's hand and greeting him, dragging over another stool for their table.

It went okay, for the next few hours, but he noticed Lyla had quieted significantly. Becky had kind of been muted as well, still looking at Lyla. He stood, to get them more drinks, when Becky appeared at his arm at the bar. "What is your problem?" he hissed. "Stop looking at Lyla like she's in a zoo or something."

"I'm sorry! I just didn't know she would be here, I just…" Becky sighed, touching her hand to her stomach. She shook her head quickly, her curls bouncing around her face. Her eyes were earnest; she was always so earnest, it tended to annoy him. "You know Tim, I mean…I'm as far along as she was when…I just can't imagine…I mean, she's staring at me too!"

"Yeah, because you're pregnant and she should have a four week old son by now," he whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible, taking the drinks Angela gave him and putting them on a tray. He glanced down at Becky. It had to be hard, to know that a woman sitting two feet from you had lost her baby horrifically. And you were in the same place as she was.

There was that link, he figured. Mindy tried to explain it to him, after the accident, when they found out what happened to Lyla. What little they knew, at least. She'd been devastated, more than he thought she'd be, and she'd just said it was a mother thing, he wouldn't understand.

Becky swallowed hard, reaching for a bowl of pretzels, starting to munch on them, mumbling. "She okay and stuff, like…can she have more kids?"

"Yes, she can have more kids," he whispered. Lyla had answered that question during one of the nightmares, when she'd wondered out loud if she'd ever be able to have kids, and that she could biologically, but didn't know if she could mentally.

"I heard about the football game. She do that often?"

You are so damn nosy, my gosh. Tim glanced down at her, whispering. "It's not your business," he said gently. I know you want to know, for your own pregnant woman piece of mind, but he wasn't going to spill Lyla's life to someone who didn't know her at all. He sighed. "Becky, she's fine. She's hurt, but she's fine and so are you and what happened to her…" It just doesn't happen.

And I don't know why it even happened to her.

She nodded quickly. "Yeah, I get it."

Good, he thought, carrying the drinks over and setting them on the table. He glanced at Lyla, who had been tapping her foot on the rung of her barstool, watching the dance floor.

A few minutes later, Luke had Becky out dancing to some song, the two of them laughing like newlyweds, which they still were. He saw Tyra making eyes with one of the assistant coaches, a kid fresh out of college who had played for Dillon and stuck around. "He's like five-years old," he reminded her. "And you're definitely not."

"I don't care, he's hot and I'm single," she said, climbing off her stool and walking towards him.

That left him and Lyla.

He nodded towards the dance floor. She smiled around her hand. "You don't have to if you don't want," she whispered.

You did not just say that. He smiled, lifting his eyebrow and sliding off the stool, walking around and offering his hand, clicking his boot heels together and bowing slightly. "Ms. Lyla Garrity, might I have this dance?"

She giggled, delicately placing her hand into hers. "I don't dance with men who don't buy me a drink," she drawled, glancing at her empty vodka tonic. She poured syrup into her voice. "You gonna' buy me a drink Tex?"

"I'll buy you all the drinks in the world," he whispered, playing into the role. Like something out of one of those old movies she watched for hours on end. He smiled, reaching to lift her delicately off the stool, walking with her towards the dance floor, where he spun her around into his chest, grinning at her wide-eyed smile.

Have fun Garrity, he thought. That's what we're here for; you wanted it.

She let out a yelp when he spun her around quickly, laughing as she fell back against his chest. She smiled, her arms around his neck, saying nothing. The smile was enough for him, he thought.

The music switched, dropping quickly from fast and fun to slow and romantic. He saw Tyra immediately let go of the cute young coach, sauntering off, but unfortunately for her, he had other plans, grabbing her hand and dragging her back to the dance floor.

He glanced down at Lyla, who had her cheek on his shoulder and her arms around him, not letting go. "You do this…" he whispered, his tongue running over his teeth, sighing. "With Michael at all?"

She nodded quickly, tilting her head back, smiling sadly. "Yes," she whispered. She swallowed hard. Six months. It had been six months. It'll get better, he thought briefly. "We would go out, but…he wasn't as a good a dancer as you," she answered, her eyes shining. She licked her lips. "He actually hated going out…he just…would rather sit at home."

Her eyes closed and she sighed, almost shaking a little as the sigh released through her nostrils. The smile came quick again. "Thank you for bringing me," she breathed, her cheek returning to his shoulder.

Wasn't my idea. He quirked his lips. "Thanks for bringing me out," he whispered. I guess I needed it too.

She pulled her face back again, smiling up at him one more time. For a brief moment, he wondered what she was going to do, until she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and sweet.

When she let go, his eyes darted from hers to across the room, where he knew they were being watched.

Tyra just lifted her eyebrow, along with her lip in a sly smile, mouthing 'Told you so.'

He rolled his eyes, glancing down at Lyla, who had her head back on his shoulder and her eyes closed. She's still so confused, he thought, holding her tighter. Doesn't know which way is up.

One day Garrity, he thought, looking around at her face; her eyes were closed and her breathing was so even, he'd have thought she was asleep if she weren't still moving her feet. One day.

One day you will know which way of the world is up.

Hell, even I managed to figure it out.


	16. And Eden revives

**_16. Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam, till now, has with wretchedness strove;  
Some portion of Paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives, in the first kiss of love!_**

This was…exciting.

Lyla stood in the old Riggins house, well, the old house she knew it to be. It was something entirely different now. The ranch, which was basically a bachelor pad for Tim and Billy her entire life, had been completely remodeled. There was nothing remaining of what it used to be to her.

She thought it was still too small for the amount of people it held, but Mindy had somehow turned it into a very economical residence. Everything was in a specific place. The twins shared Tim's old room, while Stevie had the front room. It was almost the size of a closet, but thanks to an addition on the back of the house, there was an extra playroom of sorts for all the toys.

Of which there were many.

She looked over her shoulder at the twins' room. She could see them both passed out in their bunkbeds. That was good. Now for the next one…Steven. Where was that little guy? He thought he was too old for a babysitter. She supposed that yes, if you were six years old, you would be too old for a babysitter.

The house phone rang again.

Lyla rolled her eyes, walking over and picked it up from the little table next to the front door. "Yes?" she answered, already knowing who it was.

"Hey…um…I was in the neighborhood…"

She sighed, but smiled, peeking through the blinds in the front window. Sure enough, Tim's truck was parked at the end of the street, in front of the stop-sign. "Come on over," she chuckled.

"You sure?"

You're the one who keeps calling! He'd called her four times in the last two hours. Pretending to just want to talk to his nephews. Citing that he was taking a break from work.

She swished her mouth around. "Tim, you know I'm okay but…if it makes you feel better…" You're not treating me like an infant, but she imagined it was probably a similar feeling to a mother leaving her child in kindergarten for the first time. He was so used to taking care of her the last few weeks.

Tim sighed. "You need anything?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stevie playing with his Legos. He was getting a little bored, Mindy warned her that when he went to the Legos that was the last straw for him. He'd start getting annoying and whiny once the Legos served their purpose. "Um…why don't you get ice cream? The twins are napping and…and I think it might be nice."

It also gives me another few minutes to just…not have to have my own babysitter while I'm the babysitter.

"Okay. You doing alright?"

"I'm doing fine. Your nephews are fun."

"They're terrors."

"They're cute."

"They're horrible."

You're just trying to be opposite of me, she thought with a small smile, her arm crossed over her chest, watching him through the blinds. She could see him smiling, looking straight in her direction. "Hi," she whispered.

"Hello."

They were both quiet for a few minutes, listening to the other breathe. It was…calming, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. "Tim, go get ice cream. I'll see you in a few minutes. I'm fine."

He sighed hard. "Okay. I'll see you in a few."

Lyla hung up, setting the phone back in its charging cradle. She turned around, seeing Stevie sitting in a pile of Legos in front of the television, having knocked them all down. She lifted an eyebrow, walking over towards him. "You had a nice tower going there Stevie, why'd you knock it down?" She crouched down to his level, falling back onto her heels.

He shrugged, reaching for some of the Legos. "I want to build things," he said, putting a couple of Legos together. They were the bigger ones, made of soft plastic, not the little death ones to build pirate ships or little sets from movies.

She picked up two Legos, placing them on top of his, rebuilding the tower. "Yeah, you want to be an architect?"

"Is Uncle Tim an…" Stevie struggled with the new word. Lyla was about to suggest it for him again, when he finally got it out, smiling and proud. "Arch…arch-i…archi-tect?"

She quirked her lip up, shaking her head. "No, he doesn't design buildings."

"Yes he does."

No, he didn't. She frowned a little, when Stevie got up and went over to a basket beneath one of the end tables, on either side of the couch. He returned, setting a sketchpad in her lap. "He told me to take care of this," he said, returning to the Legos.

She frowned, flicking up the cover of the sketchpad, surprised to see that there were drawings of his house. Or at least, the beginnings of it. They were rudimentary, but they were to scale and made with straight lines and angles, his small, chickenscratch writing in the corners and along the lines with various measurements.

Wow.

Lyla set the sketchpad aside, looking at Stevie again, as he built the tower. She cleared her throat. "Does Uncle Tim stay here with you guys a lot?" Maybe she could get some dirt that Tim wasn't telling her. She wasn't a fan of this one-way relationship where she told him all her pain and suffering and he only vaguely referred to his.

Stevie shrugged, holding up a window he'd made with his Legos. "Where do we put this?" he asked.

"How about here?" Lyla had started with a wall, where Stevie placed his window. It fit perfectly. She picked up a red Lego, turning it around in her fingers, lifting her eyes to Stevie. He looked a lot like Billy, except he had Mindy's blonde hair.

And he was very sweet. All the boys were. They seemed to just have…big hearts, she thought. Stevie was six and the twins were four…almost five, but they were all showing that they had more of their Uncle Tim in their personalities than their parents. What was it she told Tim one night? He had a big heart, bigger than his brain. They all seemed to be going down that path. Stevie looked up, smiling at her, dropping his gaze to the Legos. "I have to go to big boy school," he said.

"Yeah? Kindergarten?"

"Yeah. I like school."

Well that sentiment didn't come from any of his immediate family. Maybe Tyra. Maybe. She smiled, letting go of the Legos; he seemed very focused, she didn't want to distract him. All the Riggins kids had been fun for her today. She didn't once think about…about John.

Except for now.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, leaning back on her hands, watching Stevie. His light blond hair fell into his eyes, but he blew a hard breath, his bangs flying up over his forehead. He fell back onto his heels, looking up again. His dark brown eyes were very deep, sunk into his head. It gave him a very pensive appearance for a little kid. "Do you have kids?" he asked.

Lyla closed her eyes, shaking her head, whispering. "No. Not anymore."

"No more?"

This was pretty serious material for a little kid; she didn't think Mindy or Billy would appreciate her traumatizing him so early. Lyla shook her head. "No, I don't have kids," she said. It was the truth, wasn't it?

Stevie cocked his head. He pushed his Legos together. It was starting to form something, but Lyla wasn't sure what. He shrugged. "Mommy said you had a kid."

Damnit Mindy.

She bit her lip, shaking her head, whispering again. "Your Mommy's wrong."

"I heard Mommy tell Daddy."

"What did you hear her tell him?"

"You had a baby and he died." Stevie was too smart and observant for his own good, she thought, focusing on his gaze. He blinked at her. He shrugged. "How?"

"He was born too early."

"Sammy and Nicky were small." Stevie looked up, smiling again. "They're small. See the picture?" He pointed up to a shelf above the entertainment unit, which housed the television, and tons of cartoon DVDs.

Lyla stood up, going to look at the picture he was pointing towards. Yeah, there they were, she thought, seeing a photo of Mindy and Billy holding the twins, standing over little incubators, their tiny bodies wrapped in blankets, with tubes and wires coming out. She nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes babies just want to come early."

Or they're forced to come early.

Stevie stood up, pointing to another picture. "That's me."

"Yeah, I see you. You're tiny." He was wearing a small jersey, with '33' on it, sitting with Billy. Tim was nowhere to be found. Stevie was about six months old…Tim would have been in prison. How sad, she thought, to miss a year of your family.

She supposed it could be the same for her. The last…practically six months she'd spent missing her family. Missing her life. I can't get it back. She supposed she could make up for it. Or at least, try to make up for it.

"Are you going to have more babies?" Stevie asked, taking her hand, turning away from the photos. He sat down in front of his Lego construction project, speaking quietly. "Because Mommy said no more babies for her. I want a sister, but I can't get one."

"Sisters are overrated."

"The twins are smelly."

She chuckled; all little siblings were smelly to their older ones at some point. She sat back down across from him, shaking her head, whispering. "I don't know if I am going to have more babies Stevie. I'll let you know if I do."

"Okay. Can you have a girl? Maybe she can be my sister."

A laugh escaped her; she smiled warmly in his direction. Sweet kid. "I'll let you know if I do."

"Good." Stevie put a finishing Lego on his masterpiece, turning it around to face her. He smiled, standing and puffing his chest. "This is for you."

"For me?" Lyla looked at it, trying to see what it was. It was kind of lopsided, some of the towers taller than the others. There was a door and…and a bridge…oh…she looked up, truly touched. "You made me a castle?" she whispered.

Stevie nodded, walking over to give her a hug, sitting in her lap. "Uh-huh. Daddy said you got hurt. This is to protect you. It has a drawbridge, see?"

Don't cry Lyla, she told herself, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

She gave him a tight hug, whispering in his ear. "Thank you. That's very sweet of you."

"I want to go to a real castle. Uncle Tim has a castle. I can stay there sometimes."

She supposed compared to the small ranch house that Tim's farmhouse was a castle to Stevie. There was a room there; it had a set of bunkbeds. She wondered how often Stevie got to stay at Tim's house with him. He seemed like a cool uncle. A nice escape.

And she knew that well.

Stevie rested his head on her shoulder, yawning. "Can I have a cookie? You make good cookies."

I make good cookies? When did you eat my cookies?

She stood up, walking into the kitchen and opening up the fridge. There were a couple of containers in there she recognized. Very slowly, she tugged out one of the Tupperware containers, opening it up and staring at the cupcakes she'd made two days ago.

Tim didn't leave her often; when he did it was to get groceries. Run a few quick errands. During that time when she didn't leave, he was gone all of an hour sometimes. He must have been dropping by here with her baked goods.

Giving them to people who would appreciate them.

"They're so yummy, better than Mommy makes," Stevie said, reaching over her hand on the counter to sneak a cupcake. He peeled at the wrapper, smiling and biting into it, getting vanilla icing on his nose, smiling through yellow cake. "Yummy!"

Lyla laughed, taking a cupcake for herself. "Good, huh?"

"It's like Twinkies!"

That was the idea. She felt hungry and ate her cupcake, looking up when the door opened. Stevie's eyes lit up. "Uncle Tim!" he yelled, forgetting that his brothers were asleep in the next room.

Which really didn't matter, because Sammy wandered out, followed by Nicky, both of them with sleep-tousled hair and pillow creases in their cheeks. Lyla gave them a cupcake to go with their ice cream, while Tim was shown the castle by Stevie and the twins started fighting over who got Uncle Tim first.

"I'm here all night boys," Tim reminded them when they started pushing each other to get to him.

You're very popular here, she thought, dipping her spoon into her chocolate ice cream with brownie bites. She loved how he didn't need to ask what her favorite was. Just like she knew, when she peeked into the bag, seeing the small cup of vanilla, that would be the flavor he'd select.

Tim got the boys settled with ice cream and a movie, coming around the counter in the kitchen to smile at her. "How are they?" he asked.

Lyla looked over at the three tow-headed children lined up in a row on the couch, eating ice cream, talking over each other about the movie they were watching. She glanced at the castle and the sketchbook on the floor. Her conversation with Stevie sat with her.

It was better than she thought it would be. She was better than she thought she would be.

"I'm great," she answered, truthful.

Tim smiled a little half-smile. He reached into the bag to remove his vanilla cup. "They can be little monsters."

"They're very sweet children." She took a bite of her ice cream, letting it slip down her throat, smiling again. "I'm doing okay. Stevie…helped me."

"Yeah?" He smiled again, walking around her and leaning around her shoulder to grab a spoon, whispering. "He tends to have that effect. Bit like his…well I don't know who he's like. Maybe Tyra."

"Maybe you," she replied, kissing his cheek, ducking beneath his arm and walking over to the couch, glancing over her shoulder to see his reaction. She smiled when she saw that he seemed thrown off guard by that comment.

Good.

Later that evening, while they waited on Mindy and Billy and all the boys were asleep, Lyla picked up the sketchbook, walking over to sit beside him on the couch. She dropped it on his knees. It startled him, knocking him from his dozing. "What's that?" she asked, falling against the armrest of the couch, her knees lifting up to her chin.

On the opposite end, Tim picked up the book, flicking through it. He sighed, shrugging and closed it up. "It's sketches."

"They're very good. You designed your house."

"Had to Garrity."

"You had to use math. Geometry. I thought you failed that class."

He shrugged, whispering. "Took a few classes in prison. And at Dillon Tech."

"You got an Associate's, didn't you?" No one told her, but she'd kind of suspected. The History Channel being on his favorites on the television, when he'd never given a crap about anything in the past before. The fact that he'd designed his own home, with minimal aide, something that he'd had to at least use math for.

Hell, even the position he had in the construction company; she didn't doubt he was a great employee, but for any sort of supervisor position, she at least figured some sort of degree would be necessary.

Tim ran his tongue over his teeth, shrugging. "Wasn't my choice."

She snorted. Yeah right it wasn't his choice. He had a full scholarship to play football for four years and go to college; after two weeks he was done. No one could force him to go for two years to get a degree. "You don't do anything you don't want to do." Believe me. I know.

You didn't come driving three days to Tennessee just to check on me because Buddy told you. You did it because you wanted to do it.

Tim threw the sketchbook aside. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded. He scowled in her direction. He waited a moment. "Fine," he answered, his voice quiet. "I got my Associate's. Classes in jail and some classes at Dillon Tech. It's in freaking design or some crap like that. It sucked. I hated it. I got it on a C-average; you want to hear that? I'm not going to Harvard, Garrity. I don't want to. I didn't even want the damn degree in the first place, but if I wanted the good job…"

"And you wanted the good job so you did something else you didn't want to do," she whispered, lifting her eyebrow. She shook her head, whispering. "That's the story of your life Tim. It's the story of all of our lives. You do things you don't want to do in order to do things that you actually want."

Uh-oh, she realized, seeing the look crossing his face.

And she just realized what she'd said too.

Tim's lips twitched in a fast smile. He arched an eyebrow, almost clear to his hairline. "Ain't that your story Garrity? Shouldn't you be looking in a mirror when you say those things?"

Maybe.

"What do you want Garrity?"

I don't know.

She lifted her head, shrugging and whispering. "I don't know," she answered truthfully.

Tim sighed, shrugging. "You better figure it out. You can't stay here forever."

I wish I could. It would be so much easier.

Lyla was about to say as much when the front door opened. Mindy stepped in, covered in glitter, wearing Ugg boots with a sparkling miniskirt and bra, her jacket open over it. "Hey," she called, dropping her keys and bag on the table next to the door. She wiggled her fingers between the two of them. "What you guys aren't making out? Isn't that what babysitters do when they bring their boyfriends over?"

"Mindy, come on," Tim groaned.

Mindy flashed a smile. "Where are my boys?"

"Sleeping," Lyla whispered.

"Thank God. I need a shower, I need some sugar, and then I am crashing in bed. Thank you for watching them, were they good?"

Lyla thought of Stevie again. She got up from the couch, reaching for her jacket. "Perfect angels," she replied truthfully.

Mindy nodded, leaning over the counter to give her a quick hug. "Good. I'm glad. Tim, I see you decided to drop by."

"I'm her ride."

Mindy nodded, arching an eyebrow. "Sure, sure," she murmured, smiling again. "Alright, well…I'll call you Garrity, if you want to watch them again, maybe next week."

I don't know where I'll be next week.

I have some things to think about.

Lyla made a comment about how she'd be around; vague and noncommittal. She waved again at Mindy, walking out of the house and to Tim's truck. It felt weird to leave that house. She turned to look over her shoulder at it. It had really changed. Just like Mindy. Just like Billy.

She glanced sideways at her driver.

Just like Tim.

Halfway home she reached over and took his hand, threading her fingers into his. "I love you," she whispered. She was so sleepy. Almost fell asleep in the truck once already.

Tim was quiet, squeezing her hand. He sighed, a moment later. "I love you too."

She rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

Several minutes later, her eyes flickered open, seeing that he was carrying her into her room, resting her on the bed. He pulled off her tennis shoes and her jeans, leaving her in her over-sized t-shirt. She turned in the bed, curling into the yellow baby blanket she'd brought with her, feeling him drape a quilt over her.

When he turned to leave, she shot her hand out, pulling him down onto the bed. "Stay," she murmured.

"Lyla."

"Stay," she repeated, sighing again. It felt nice to have him there.

He stilled and a moment later, after hearing the thud of his boots on the hardwood, he crawled in bed next to her. Byron jumped up a moment later, settling between their feet, in his usual position on her bed.

She pushed her nose into his chest, smiling.

A few hours later, she woke up, the spot beside her replaced with Byron, who was snoring into the pillow. She sighed, a little annoyed that he'd gone to his own room, but…it was probably for the best anyway.

I have to think about some things, she thought, closing her eyes and turning away from Byron's stinky breath beside her.

She'd think of them tomorrow.

The next day, she had an inkling of what she wanted to do, but wasn't sure. So she drew her book towards her and started writing.

Maybe it would come to her.


	17. When age chills the blood

_**17. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past—**_

"Tim, wake up."

"Hmm…"

Lyla leaned over him, shaking him awake. Byron snuffled in at his other side, licking his face and smearing drool on his shoulder. She hovered over him, her face about two or three inches away as he blinked awake, looking up at her in the darkness. He looked like a little kid, she thought, his hair sticking up every which way.

He ran a hand through it, sending it in further directions. "Garrity," he groaned. He sighed, glancing at the alarm clock. "It's two-thirty in the morning!"

"You used to be partying until two-thirty in the morning."

"Before I had a job and got old and shit," he grumbled, turning onto his stomach and hugging a pillow against him, mumbling further into it. "What's going on? Nightmare? Crawl in."

The fact that he didn't care that she hid in his bed like a stupid child when she had nightmares just made her heart warm a little, but that wasn't why she was here. She hadn't been asleep very long when she'd woken up, realizing something.

An epiphany.

She smiled against him, whispering. "I know what I want to do."

It was strange. She'd fallen asleep, with Byron snoring beside her, like she always did, keeping her mind as blank as possible so the nightmares didn't come. It just depended on what had happened earlier in the day, if she'd…she'd done something that reminded her of Michael or there was an overwhelming presence of…of him around her. Or of John.

And then she'd kind of just…woke up. Woke up, she'd glanced at her hardcover books, lined up on the dresser, nice and neat, all five of the ones she'd been writing in the last six months, and that was it.

I have to tell him.

"I…" she trailed off, nibbling at her lower lip, leaning against his back. He turned his head up to peer at her. Her eyes closed, a smile curving slightly. "I didn't…I got my degree in business, I…I worked in Michael's law firm…he was a paralegal while he went to law school and I…" It was hard to talk about, but…it was more like she was trying to talk around a lump in her throat.

You had to talk, even if it hurt a bit. But the more you spoke, the faster the lump faded. That's what it was like now, when she had to talk about Michael…or even John.

Before she wouldn't have been able to say their names or think of them without crying.

I can't believe I'm actually getting better, she thought, looking down at her hands, running her fingers over each other. She dropped her voice. "I want to write, Tim. I want to publish my book."

Tim rolled completely onto his back, his arm wrapping around her to rest on her knee. "Yeah?" he whispered. He took a breath, swallowing it and speaking quietly. "You're writing a book?"

She nodded quickly. That's what it was, in essence. One woman's journey through…something. Whatever. It could be a book. I want to share this with other people. To let them know that it's not all…it's possible to get back out. From the darkness.

I think I can say that.

Lyla turned around completely, stretching out beside him, her hand on his chest while he wrapped her up in the blanket. "I just," she whispered, pausing to snuggle al ittle closer to him beneath the blanket. She propped her head up on her hand, looking down at him. Tears pricked her eyes. "I want to help…I think…Tim I can say his name!"

That was huge! Over six weeks ago she was in the bathtub sobbing at the thought. Being out here in this place… "The air," she whispered, looking across his room out the windows, the curtains not pulled. She shrugged. "This place…the air, the trees, the hills…I don't know what it is Tim but I swear you took me here I wanted nothing to do with it or you and now I feel like I should have been here in the first place."

Not like I should have been here to not…to not even have the pain I've suffered, but…to help me heal. That's what this place has done, I think… She wiped at her eyes, dropping her hand back to his chest, whispering. "Tim…it still hurts. So much. Knowing my son died…knowing it could have been prevented if those guys hadn't been there in that alley and…"

I can't second-guess things. This happened to me.

I have to live.

This thing… she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and leaned over to the floor, picking up the stack of books. She turned, holding them in her hands and set them on his chest.

I want you to read them, she thought silently, looking down at him.

He stared back at her, not saying a word; not even moving.

Yes, she thought, lifting her eyebrow.

He glanced at them, his eyes darting towards hers again. You sure, he wanted to know.

Never more sure.

The lump was gone in her throat; she smiled slightly, whispering. "You put up with me Tim. You came to help me and you…you put up with this sad woman who just…who probably terrified you. Who said mean things to you just because I was hurting too. You did that for the last…almost seven weeks." And I know that it couldn't have been easy.

Couldn't be easy to help a woman who was in love with another man who…died tragically; a woman who lost her child along with her fiancé…couldn't be easy at all, when you were also in love with her.

Maybe that's what made it easier on you, she thought, thinking of the last bit she'd written in the book, before she woke him up.

I need to leave now.

She kissed his cheek, patting his hand and climbed from the bed. "I'm going to go to sleep. I…" I don't know how much longer I have to stay here.

The trial was coming up…that would be difficult, but…she did need to move on.

The world kept turning.

And she would always, always love the life she could have had.

That just wasn't her option any longer.

Byron jumped off the bed, following after her into her bedroom. She closed the door and crawled back into her bed, looking around the yellow, sunshine room. Hell, even the sunshine helped her.

Lyla closed her eyes, burrowing beneath the covers, Byron beside her snoring after a few seconds. She sighed, falling into a deep sleep.

And she didn't wake up, until about six or seven hours later; she'd slept late, for her, and it was Tim shaking her awake. "Hey," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He pointed to the last hardcover book she'd written in, jabbing a finger into the spine. He didn't seem happy. "This true?"

It was all true.

She nodded slowly, wiping at her eyes and face. Yeah, surprising, I know. Lyla swallowed hard, lifting her eyes to his, nodding again. "It's true," she whispered.

"Damnit Garrity," he muttered. He set the book aside, leaning forward over his knees, scrubbing at his face. He shook his head, whispering. "You can't do that to me."

I only told the truth.

I can take that part out of it, when I turn it into a book…if I turn it into a book.

She turned, to say something, but gasped, when he grabbed her face, pressing a hard, intense kiss to her mouth. She fell backwards, surprised, and her hands remaining at her sides.

After a second, she returned the kiss, reaching for him, but he was already pulling away, grabbing the book and leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

What the hell?

Her brow wrinkled. Seriously? "Tim!" she yelled, jumping up and running after him, seeing him disappearing around the banister of the stairs. She flew down the steps, jumping the last two and then skidded into the kitchen, grabbing his arm.

There was no way he was running away after that.

She slapped the book from his hand. "What the hell?"

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. He genuinely seemed apologetic. "But you can't write what you did…Lyla…do you know how hard this has been for me?!"

You don't yell. You get upset, but you never yell like this. Not unless you're truly upset. She nodded quickly, whispering. "I know."

"It's been hell, okay?" He pointed towards the stairs. "That night I found you in the bathtub, burning yourself because you forgot the water was running or…" he stammered, his voice trembling. "Or even when I found you in Nashville…Lyla I thought you were going to die or something, okay? You were not you and I…I didn't know what to do to you or with you or whatever and now you're still here and you're better and you're so much better but I…you can't write that!"

"I feel it!" she exclaimed. She wiped at her eyes, sobbing. This isn't about me. It isn't about you. It's the both of us. "I'm sorry Tim, but I'm going to tell the truth, I meant what I said, okay? I lost my fiancé, I lost the man that I was in love with and I was going to spend the rest of my life with and I can't ever get that back! I can't! I can't get my son back because they had to cut him out of me to save me, do you know…"

I can't even talk about that, she thought, choking through the words, her voice breaking. There had been six weeks of him helping her. Bringing her back to life. Only now all that pain that had been bottled up, all those feelings…she was just pouring them out of her, even more than she had on her birthday. That had been a relief…this was pain to make you feel better in the end. "I miss them both, okay? I miss them like I'm missing a limb, but they're gone and I can't change it and you showed me that I can be…I can be happy."

"Not with me!" Tim exclaimed.

That's not what I said…I didn't mean that.

She really messed this up, she thought, covering her face with her hands and sobbing. "Tim," she cried, taking in his hurt look. I messed this up. That wasn't the intention of her ending paragraph.

_There is only one place in this world where I truly felt home. Not Vanderbilt, not even Dillon, but…this little tiny place outside of Dillon, this little castle in Texas. The castle had a moat and it had a wall and it had a dragon guarding the gate (even if he looked a bit like a basset hound) and the castle even had a prince. A prince who helped wake the princess up, with Byronic personality and a bad boy exterior…my prince helped wake me up. I will love him always, the prince in the castle in Texas._

I didn't want to make him feel like I couldn't be happy without him.

Which was clearly what was upsetting him so much. And hell, she understood that…you didn't want to be the only reason for someone else's living. She'd done it, she'd only loved someone so much her whole life had been about them. And she didn't want him for him…now he didn't want it for her again.

"No," she cried, shaking her head, her hair falling into her eyes. I must look a sight, standing here in my giant pajamas, with my broken apart body and even more broken mind. "I can't…I just…I love you, okay? I love you and I meant what I said about…"

I said that I loved you, that you did this because you loved me and I will love you for it. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.

But the rest was true.

"I do want this one day," she whispered, looking at him. She bit her bottom lip. "I want you to be my friend, okay? I want you to be my Tim, the way you always were and the way you were when you came and you took me out of that house," she sobbed, the words cracking.

He took her into his arms, holding her tight. She just burrowed into him, her voice pitiful and small. "I just want you to never leave me Tim. That's all I wanted to say…just please don't leave me. I don't want to be like how it was…I don't want to be out of your life, even if…"

Even if this ends at friendship. She swallowed hard, not saying that. "Even when I go back to Nashville…when I leave."

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her temple. He sighed, his breath tickling her ear. "I just…you were with someone Garrity. I can't…can't be the…I don't want to replace…"

That's not what I meant.

I just meant…hell she really wasn't even sure anymore. She pulled back, her hands going to his face, holding it in place so she could look him in the eye. "I love you, you are…you are the only one who came in and helped me. The doctors just gave me pills…my dad just didn't want to face the trouble…neither did my mom or my brother or sister and…and my friends thought I was just a mess and should go to a hospital, but you…"

"You treated me like I was human," she finished. She wiped at her eyes. That's what it ultimately boiled down towards. Even when she was at her most…non-human, writhing in pain on the bed through a nightmare. Or just being comatose and not even listening to the world move on outside…he still treated her with dignity.

Maybe because he knew what it was like to have none.

And ultimately, wasn't that what brought them closer together? This shared…pain and trauma?

She licked her lips, her fingers tightening slightly into his neck. "I love you. I only wanted to say that…and…and that's the face I'm seeing…it breaks my heart, but that's the face I'm seeing now…not Michael…or…or even John." And it breaks my heart that they're fading.

That I am having a hard time remembering things about him. What his voice sounded like…I don't even want to hear it if I was able to, though. It was too painful.

I didn't think it was possible to be able to think of him without bursting into tears.

He called her Gary sometimes, because he was just…he was such a dork, she thought. She slid her hands down to wrap around Tim's waist, her cheek now on his chest. "You're my Tim," she whispered, her eyes closing. "And you helped me…and…I wanted you to see it."

Just see it for yourself.

That woman writing those books in the beginning…and the one writing at the end.

Two very different people.

I'm sorry I put you in that position, to have to…be my Tim. In so many words.

Tim smoothed his hand down her hair, to her back. "I love you too Lyla," he whispered, hugging her tighter. He kissed her cheek, whispering into her skin. "And I will be here no matter what. I promise."

Thank you.

"I might…" She hiccupped, wiping at her eyes. There were still things she…she wasn't sure of on her own. She shook her head quickly. "Can you please…take me to Nashville? Help me get…get situated?"

He smiled, nodding slowly. "I can do that."

"Thank you."

Tim flicked her tears away and his hands spread over her face. She reached to hold them, just staring up at him. What do you see, she wondered, when he looked at her with the deep, longing way he looked at her now. He smiled, shaking his head a little. "You are an amazing person Lyla."

She quirked her lip up. Not really. "I couldn't get out of bed for almost five months," she whispered.

"And you still got out of bed…" he trailed off, licking his lips, smiling wider. "And you are…you're like…" He sighed, his words whispering with the sigh. "You're just…"

Just say it, she thought. She squeezed his hands tighter, tears streaming down her face again. "You saved me," she whispered.

He shook his head quickly, enveloping her up so tight that her toes brushed the floor. She just clutched him, hardly breathing. His voice was a whisper in her ear. "You saved yourself." He held her tighter and she heard him barely whisper, maybe just to himself. "My Lyla."

Your Garrity, she wanted to correct him, but she didn't, too busy holding on tight so she didn't have to fall back to earth. I can leave the house at night now, she thought, closing her eyes. I can think of things I want to do with my life. I actually want to start…anew.

Start this life without my Michael and my little John.

She released a breath. It didn't hurt so much to take it.

"Good," Tim whispered. He chuckled. "You're breathing."

I am breathing.

She took in another breath and released it again, laughing as she did.


	18. For years fleet away

**A/N:**Thank you for the reviews :) This fic is almost over, the chapters from here on out will jump in time until the last two, which are sort of like back to back epilogues. After this fic, there will be a break while I edit a fic I wrote awhile ago and tried posting but five chapters in and I got no responses, so I took it down due to lack of interest. Hopefully there will be some more interest as I fix it up. Anyway, enjoy this, thanks!

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_**18. For years fleet away with the wings of a dove-**_

I don't really want to leave you.

Tim stood in the foyer of the bungalow, watching as Lyla fiddled with the keys. He glanced outside at his truck. It held the last bit of her effects, which she hadn't sold or just donated to Goodwill.

The realtor was taking one last pass, to ensure that everything was as it was supposed to be for the new owners, who would take possession tomorrow. Everything was closing today. Papers signed…all that.

And he didn't want to leave her.

It was a big moment.

It had been a pretty stressful last few weeks.

They'd driven back to Nashville, with Byron in the seat between them, acting like some Texas version of Smokey and the Bandit, where he'd left her at the house, but after the first night, with him on the couch and her upstairs, she'd come crawling down to the couch, whispering how she couldn't stay there.

So they went to a hotel.

The next day, she vowed to clean it out; all of it. Even after cleaning the house, she still couldn't live there. He'd taken on the baby's room and Lyla had only come in to help when he'd packed up most of the stuff that was left. That night she'd slept relatively okay, other than once or twice he heard her getting up and down, restless.

And after all that, she said she had to sell. There was no more money from the insurance company to pay the mortgage, she should get out now before she got in too deep.

A fresh start was what she needed.

I still don't think she's going to have a good night, Tim thought, his arms crossed, standing in the grass as she passed the keys to the realtor, who shook her hand, said she'd be in touch with any further issues.

After a few minutes, the realtor drove off in a fancy SUV, leaving them behind. Lyla, locked out of the house she'd lived in for the last three years, just stood and stared at it. It was a cheery house, Tim thought, dropping his hands to his hips. Too small for his liking; it had no backyard or front for that matter.

But for a couple just starting out, it wasn't bad.

"I carved our initials in there," she whispered, pointing to the new concrete steps. She smiled, her arms wrapping around herself, lifting her face up to the sky. "And because he didn't want to get the concrete guys mad for messing up their work, Michael covered it up."

"He sounds like he was a very nice guy," he whispered. He never spoke about Michael. It wasn't his place to ask questions or to comment.

Lyla laughed, tossing her hair back. "Oh God Tim, you would have hated him."

"Huh?" I don't hate people. Some people, yeah, but not all people. And even then it was more intense dislike rather than hate. That was a very strong word. Maybe not even intense dislike.

She turned quickly, shrugging her shoulders and whispering. "Michael was a geek. He was so not what…" She laughed slightly, glancing at the house, shrugging again, her voice quiet. "He was sweet and kind and…and I guess he was more like Matt Saracen or Landry Clarke, you remember them?"

He lifted an eyebrow. It was hard not to remember those two. He still saw them around occasionally, when they visited family in Dillon, other than that…not so much. People lost touch.

"My favorite movie of all time is…"

"_Casablanca_," he whispered. He smiled at her surprised look. I'm not completely oblivious. He shrugged, his hands in his pockets now. "I remember it from when Jason told me. Your fifth date, he took you to a drive in that showed _Casablanca_, because it was your favorite movie of all time."

I can't believe I remember that, he thought. It was obvious that even she was surprised. She smiled briefly. "Yeah," she whispered, nodding quickly. "And he…well he did that for one of our dates. He made it _Casablanca_ themed. I wore a vintage dress and he wore a suit and…fedora and it was so silly and stupid and he was so nice…" Lyla pushed her hand through her hair, letting it fall down to her shoulder. Her eyes were focused on a patch of dry grass in front of her. "Michael liked to watch football, but he didn't like playing it…he wasn't obsessed or anything, but…I knew more about it than he did."

"And he," she sighed, continuing and keeping her voice even. Tim wasn't really surprised, but she kept going. More release. The more the better for her in the long run. "He was just…different. He wanted to be a lawyer and work for Legal Aid and I know he sounds like a saint, but he wasn't perfect. He swore all the time and he was too risk-averse. Sometimes it got to a point where you just wanted to scream at him to take a risk, do something crazy, you know?"

I know all too well about doing crazy things, more than I need to for the rest of my life, he thought, quirking his lip in a smile and simply nodded. Lyla shrugged, crossing her arms again. "I miss him Tim. It's been…"

I almost feel like I can count how long its been. Almost eight months.

It was December, practically Christmas.

And he didn't want to leave her alone at Christmas.

That's what they had vacation time for, right, he thought idly. He'd help her settle in her condo, which she'd bought near downtown. She'd gotten a job working for a local non-profit, as a business manager. It wasn't her first choice, but she'd said she needed money and they hired her after one interview.

Probably because they felt sorry for me, she'd told him afterward. The trial was going to start in a couple months and they were talking about a deal that one of the guys made, to testify against the other, saying he was the ringleader of the whole thing.

I don't know how long you plan to stay in Nashville, but I don't think you can stay very long, Tim thought, watching her. Lyla sighed again. "It's been eight months. Feels like yesterday but it also feels like a million years ago."

Kind of felt like that with him and prison. He knew that feeling the moment he walked in, but he also felt that relief like it was yesterday and not five years ago that he'd left.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, glancing at the house. Tears shone in her eyes. "Let's go," she whispered, stepping away from the house, walking by him towards his truck.

He glanced at the house. It was really cute. There was a giant red 'Sold' sign on a post in front of the stoop. He nibbled at his lower lip, glancing at it again. It held too many memories for her.

It was the life that could have been.

Tim turned away from it, going to the truck and climbing inside. He glanced at her, looking out the window. "When do you have to be at trial?" he whispered. That was going to be the next big thing.

The next mental hurdle for her.

"I don't know, I don't even know if it will go to trial, the prosecutor said they'd attempt to settle." She sighed, glancing at him. She shrugged. "Can you just…take me to my…wherever I live?"

Yeah.

They drove silently through Nashville, where he found a parking space behind her Prius. The fact that Lyla drove a Prius shouldn't have surprised him. She liked to help things. The environment was just one of many, he supposed.

He helped her with the remaining items, bringing them up to her small condo. It was sparsely furnished, but very…Lyla, with what she'd kept from the house and what she'd found around town at thrift stores to offset the things she'd donated, that she couldn't keep.

Tim was pleased to see that she'd kept a few things of Michael's. It wouldn't do her good to throw them all out. She'd regret that one day. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair, looking at her as she pulled out leftover Chinese food from the fridge, passing him a fork.

He nodded to the bathroom, taking the takeout container from her and sticking the fork into it. "Why don't you go clean up? I'll heat this up."

"Chinese food tastes better cold."

"Garrity, we can have this argument until we're dead, you're wrong."

She giggled. "Fine. You can have this one." She went off to her bedroom and the lone bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Tim set the container down, removing the few others and carried them to the coffee table. He went to the rack of movies she'd kept, searching for the one he wanted, finally finding it buried in the back. He stuck it in the television, hitting play and then turned off the TV.

He'd surprise her.

Several minutes later, she came out of the bedroom wearing one of his t-shirts that she'd confiscated from her visit with him. Byron looked up from his bed in the corner, woofing. Tim tossed him half of a leftover eggroll.

"People food isn't good for him."

"He'll be fine."

Byron began to hack, coughing up the eggroll. Lyla just glared at him. He rolled his eyes. "Fine!" He got up, cleaned up after Byron, making a face while he did so, and after cleaning up himself, sat down on the couch.

Lyla looked down at him, her feet beneath her. "So what are we going to do tonight? We're leaving tomorrow, right?"

"Yes." They were driving back to Texas, for Christmas, and then she'd fly back to Nashville and start her life again. With strict orders that when she did, she could call him any time.

She quirked her lip, leaning against the couch. "Sorry I've kind of…ruined your life these last couple months." Her voice was quiet, reflective. She tugged at the couch cushion, fiddling with it and whispering again, her eyes lifting to his. "Turned you into a giant babysitter."

I'm not a babysitter, he thought darkly, glancing at her. He shook his head, disagreeing. "I chose this Garrity. Your dad asked me to check on you, he was worried and thought I'd be the only one who could get through and…I chose to do this and I'm not a babysitter, okay? Don't say that." I just love you, I just want to make sure you're okay.

Lyla lifted her eyebrow, whispering. "You know I never asked you if you had a girlfriend or anything…if I messed that up when I came back…figured I'd have found out, but…"

I think you know me pretty well Lyla to know that you were probably the only official 'girlfriend' I've had. Even Tyra and him…they cheated on each other all the damn time and then acted hurt when the other found out about it.

He shrugged. "No girlfriend," he answered truthfully. He reached for the bottle of beer he'd pulled out of the fridge, sitting on the coffee table, stretched back and cracking the top, lifting it towards her with a small smile. "Just Tyra, when she comes to town sometimes. Depends on her mood."

"Booty call."

"Whatever you want to call it," he laughed. He didn't really want to talk about this with her. Made him feel weird. He shook his head again. "Nah…I think that ship with Tyra has sailed."

"She want more?" She shrugged, whispering. "Not that she seemed like it and you told me already about your deal, but…I don't know. Why not, you know?"

I want more Garrity, believe it or not. I always seem to want more.

He lifted his eyes back to her, leaning back and propping his head on his hand, watching her. She seemed very small in her oversized pajamas, with her dark wet hair tied from her face. He sipped the beer, placing it back on the table.

Lyla leaned in, before he realized what she was doing and kissed him, her nose brushing against his. She broke a second later, her eyelids opening slowly and lashes fluttering. Her hand pressed to his cheek.

His breathing came shaky. What was…what was that?

"What movie are we watching?" she mumbled, her forehead still touching his, looking straight at him.

He sighed, turning his head and reaching for the remote, flicking the teleivison on. Lyla smiled, rolling her eyes towards him again, whispering. "_Roman Holiday_."

"You tried to get me to watch it, so I'm finally going to watch it."

"I wish I was Audrey Hepburn, a princess running through Rome."

Tim kissed her lightly, one last time and separated, settling back into the couch with one of the cartons of Chinese food and his beer. "You are a princess Garrity."

"The Princess of Dillon? I don't think so."

"Dillon? I'd say Texas."

She giggled, settling against him, sideways, and draping her feet over the armrest of the couch, eating her food, Bryon sitting at their feet, the ever-present vacuum cleaner. "I wouldn't be surprised if Texas tries to become a monarchy one day."

"It's too independent for that," he mused, watching the black and white movie begin to roll. He tossed a piece of chicken towards Byron.

"Tim! He's going to get sick again!"

"Your dog has a more delicate constitution than me."

"And that's not delicate, you can eat sandpaper."

"That was one time and it was a dare from Billy when I was eight."

Lyla giggled, rolling her eyes up towards him. "I was kidding."

Tim shrugged, sipping his beer. "Wish I was."

She smiled. Her lips formed a line, the corners pulling to her eyes. "Friends?" she whispered, her fingers threading into his. Squeezing tight.

Friends, he nodded, squeezing her hand back. He nodded towards the movie. "Shh Garrity, I want to watch this."

"No you don't."

He did, he really did.

Several minutes later, they never did finish the movie; both of them fast asleep on the couch, with Byron lapping up the rest of the Chinese food.


	19. The dearest remembrance

_**A/N:**_This takes a big time jump from the previous series of chapters. There are about four more chapters (they're all quite long, so I might cut them up a bit) Thank you to those who have reviewed and enjoy. :)

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_**19. The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.**_

"What do you think?" she whispered, sitting across from Mrs. Taylor, in Tim's living room, leaning against the couch, her head propped on her hand. Lyla sighed, shaking her head and glancing at the huge sheaf of papers in Tami's hands.

She didn't like her job much; she started off as a business manager for a non-profit, only to see the non-profit fold before she had three months in. After that, she'd moved back to Austin, unable to stay in Nashville, as heartbreaking as it had been to leave the place where Michael and John were buried.

So, as an account manager for the company Tim worked for, based in Austin, she had a lot of time on her hands. She'd typed up all the journals and ramblings, turning it into a book.

Tami smiled, her hand smoothing over the papers. "Wow," she whispered, lifting her head, laughing. She set them on the coffee table, clapping her hands together. "Lyla, that's what I thought when I finished reading these. You're a very good writer."

"It's just…ramblings," she whispered.

"That's what makes it so powerful. I think that a publisher would take this. I think they'd work with it. It's unlike anything out there. It's a novel, it's got a plot, but…you do it so stream of conscious and…and just the detail of how you felt right after the tragedy and then a year later."

One whole year.

Lyla closed her eyes; the anniversary of the attack had been a month before. She'd returned to Nashville, with Buddy, Tim, and Michael's mother and family. They'd held a memorial service, to just…honor him some more. A few days later, she returned with Buddy and her brother, who had been driving by Tennessee, swinging over to be with her, to commemorate John's passing.

What a short life, she'd thought, seeing the three days between his birthday and his deathday. At least he hadn't been in…in too much pain.

Now she was back in Dillon, for the weekend, where she'd come to write. Tim's land was too inspiring for her on many counts. There was this idea in her head, for a book, a novel, actually and she'd only just started, using a large leather-bound book to begin.

Handwriting was just…her thoughts flowed better if she wrote everything out, rather than typed on a computer.

She licked her lips, nodding towards the papers. "What do you think I should do first?" she whispered.

"I think, you need to talk with Julie," Tami said, smiling. She nodded towards the stack again, her voice quiet. "She works at a publishing company, she's an editor…she's junior editor and has no authority whatsoever, but at least she can push it to the right people and just let them decide."

That would work. All she wanted was the opportunity to share it.

Lyla leaned down, picking at her fingernail. The flecks of red nail polish fell to her jeans, where she dusted it to the floor. She closed her eyes, her arms going around her legs, huddling into the couch. "The trial starts in two weeks," she murmured.

I'll be the last person to testify, she thought idly. The prosecutor called it shock value. They'd lead up to the first-person account from the police officers and the medical examiner and then finally have her come in. He also felt it might easier for her, to not be the first person right out of the gate.

Tim would be with her. So would Buddy. Michael's mother didn't want to be there, she said she didn't want to see the people who killed him. Lyla knew Tim wanted to see the one, the ringleader.

His name was meaningless to Lyla. All he was, was a face, who came out of nowhere and ruined her life for a few bucks, a score, and a gang initiation, apparently, according to the other guy, the one who flipped.

And he'd shown no remorse so far.

I just want to move on with my life.

Lyla picked up the papers, shoving them into the folder she'd been carting them around in for awhile. She tucked her hair behind her ear, whispering to Tami. "Can I ask you something else?"

It had been weighing on her lately.

More than it probably should have.

And Tami would be able to help; she was…a counselor.

Tami got up from the chair she'd been settled in, moving over to sit beside her on the couch. She crossed her legs, leaning back in the couch and propping her head on her hand. Her soft, compassionate eyes met Lyla's, a tiny smile pulled on her lips. "You're going to ask me about Tim, aren't you," she whispered.

You are good. Lyla quirked her lip up. She waited a second, closing her eyes and cleared her throat. She shifted her weight a little, leaning forward over her knees and crossing her arms. She waited a moment, until the thought was ready and spoke. "It's been a little over a year since…since everything. I feel…" She pushed her hand into her stomach.

It was hard to convey. It wasn't like she was asking permission, she just…she tossed her hair from her face, turning her head to Tami, tears welling up in her eyes. "I feel like I'm betraying Michael."

Tami waited a moment. She frowned slightly, whispering. "Are you and Tim…"

"No," Lyla blurted out, sitting up immediately. She swallowed hard. That was kind of the problem; she just…she closed her eyes. "How is it that I'm feeling guilty and betraying Michael when…when I think of Tim like that, but…but I'm…"

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Tim's dating someone." A nice girl. A very, very nice girl, her name was Sarah and she was someone who did payroll for the construction company. She wasn't like the usual ones.

And she wasn't even sure they were dating, just that Tim had gone out with her a couple times, which in Tim Riggins world meant they were dating. He'd come home at like three in the morning one day, when she'd been staying over. He didn't even know she was in the house, since she'd made a key and came over when she just needed an escape.

It wasn't like she could ask him. He'd never tell her. The one time she'd met Sarah had also been on accident. She'd gone to her dad's bar, having driven out because she'd been having nightmares.

All it took was a night in the peaceful house Tim built for her to be okay again. It was a bad habit; she'd been trying to break it.

Byron was judging her; she could feel him, watching from his position on the window seat behind her.

And there they were, at the bar, laughing. Like they were on a date. Which she figured they were. Tim hadn't said a word about her appearance, because she'd met Sarah and promptly left. Gone to Buddy's house and left the next day for Austin.

Tami didn't need her to explain further beyond the fact that Tim was seeing someone. She smiled comfortingly. "You're jealous."

"I'm not jealous," she snapped. Maybe she was. She sighed, frustrated, wiping at her face. "I'm just…I don't like that he's with her. I want…" She froze. That wasn't it. She laughed. It was insane. She wiped at her eyes again, whispering. "Mrs. Taylor, I'm jealous he's happy and he's with someone, but when I think of being with him, it…it breaks my heart because it means Michael…it means I'm over Michael."

"You're not over him," Tami whispered. She moved closer, taking her hand, turning her face gently with her other hand. She smiled again; her eyes were sparkling. "Honey, you were in love with Michael. You were going to have a baby and get married…until something happened you couldn't change, something terrible and that went away. You will always be in love with Michael and you will always miss him, but sweetheart you're not even thirty yet. You're not even thirty and you are a beautiful young woman who deserves a family and deserves happiness, now more than ever and…"

"And it's going to be hard," she said. She smiled again. "Lyla it's going to be so hard, but you know what sweetie? It's okay. It's not a betrayal and I know that's easier to say than it is to feel, but do you believe Michael would want you to be miserable and to mourn him forever? Do you believe that…that you don't deserve another child?"

Not at all. I do want another child. I will always love my John, but…she closed her eyes. It was easier to say, but…it didn't feel as terrible as it did a year ago. Or even six months ago. She looked down at her hand, which was clutching Tami's tight. Her knuckles were turning white.

It was Tim though.

She shook her head, whispering. "Should I tell him?"

Tami quirked her lip, nodding slowly. "Honey, if he's with someone, he's with someone, but I can tell you right now that Tim Riggins has been in love with you since you were Jason Street's girlfriend. Now this Sarah girl is really sweet and maybe he loves her, but…something also tells me that she'll be okay. Tim deserves to know how you feel. To make his own choice and…" She sighed hard, shrugging. "If he doesn't…doesn't want that, then…there's nothing you can do but just be satisfied in knowing that your conscience is clear and that you can go out and find love. You're not betraying Michael."

Lyla closed her eyes. I just still miss him. Miss how he'd sing in the shower and he'd burn everything he tried to make. I can't even hear his voice anymore. I don't even know the smell of his shampoo.

But…she just kept having those thoughts about Tim. About wouldn't it be nice to not have to sleep in the guest room and wouldn't it be nice to wake up next to him without the knowledge that the only reason she'd gone into his bed was because she had a bad dream? Or an anxiety attack?

Wouldn't it be nice to just…be how they used to be?

She glanced at Tami. That was the other part of her question. "How do I know that how I feel isn't just being…" She shrugged, chuckling a little. "Like Stockholm Syndrome or something? Loving Tim because…because he helped me?"

Tami laughed. "Stockholm Syndrome? Oh honey, I don't think so. I think that…" She glanced at Byron, who was looking out the window; his ears flopped out on either side of his head. She gestured to the dog. "You named him after Lord Byron, right?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't Lord Byron say," Tami said, quoting. "'Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship'"?

Damnit. He did. Lyla sighed, shrugging. "Are you saying that Tim and I could never be friends?"

"You could, but the greatest loves often grow from the greatest friendships." Tami shrugged, whispering, a grin on her face. "I was friends with Eric before we really did get together. Been together ever since."

It was such a peculiar thing. Love. Lyla felt like she was…betraying love, wanting love, and scared of love, all at the same time. Maybe she was.

Tami patted her cheek. "You should let Tim know. Sooner rather than later. As for Michael and John…" Her smile fell, replaced by an accepting sadness. She rubbed at her shoulder. "Lyla that might not go away for a long time, that…sinking feeling without him, but the best you can do is move on and be healthy, because while I didn't know Michael, I'm sure it's what he would have wanted for the woman he loved."

Yes, Michael…she would want the same for him, she thought, closing her eyes. If their situations had reversed and…and it had been her who died and not him. I'd want him happy, that's all. To just be happy.

She released a long breath, her eyes closing. The lump disappeared from her throat after breathing deep for a few minutes. She glanced at Tami, who was watching her. "What?" she murmured.

Tami simply smiled. "You, Lyla. You don't look it, but you are incredibly, incredibly courageous. You have been through so much…and don't you look at me like that, everyone's pain is different. You can't compare them. You did go through a lot and you overcame it and now all this…" She shrugged again, laughing. "And you did it again."

High school and this…very different Mrs. Taylor.

Lyla looked up from Tami when the front door opened. Byron whipped his head from the window, woofing and jumping down, waddling to greet Tim, who emerged in the doorway. "Hey…oh, gross," Tim mumbled, wiping his hand on Byron, smearing the drool he got from the incredibly drooly dog. He looked up, surprised to see Tami there. "Mrs. Taylor."

"Hello Tim, how are you?"

"Fine. Garrity, you writing?" Tim glanced at the papers sitting in the folder beside her. He nodded. "Guess so. Sorry, I'll be out of your hair…come on Byron!"

Byron woofed, chasing after him into the backyard.

Tami stood up, brushing her hands over her jeans. "Well sweetheart, I should get back to check on Grandma Saracen. If you need me, we'll be here for another couple days, before we go back to Pennsylvania."

"Thank you for the feedback."

"Here's Julie's card," Tami said, passing her the card. She smiled, shrugging her shoulder. "She started off as an intern making coffee about a year and a half ago, so just take it for what it's worth, but I know she'll try to push it to the right people, plug the book."

Tami leaned in, giving her a tight hug. "And you call me, if you need to talk after the trial, alright? I'll be watching the news."

It wasn't televised, not nationally, but it did have enough national exposure. The brutal slaying of a young family, it didn't help that Michael was attractive and so was she and it also had drug connections. Lyla didn't like that people were making money off her pain, she'd tried to stop it, as much as possible, but the media was a beast that could not be tamed.

She walked Tami out of the house, promising she'd stay in touch and would contact Julie. She tucked the card in the front of the folder, setting her treasured manuscript on the desk in the front room.

After a second of just looking at it, she went out to the back, where Tim was holding a beer and trying to get Byron to play fetch, but the basset hound, who was not known for its fetching skills, was tracking something, his nose buried in the grass, wandering in all directions.

That dog could probably walk to Mexico before realizing it was lost, Lyla thought, closing the door and walking down the steps to join him. "Your dog won't play fetch, what kind of a dog doesn't do that?" Tim complained.

"He's busy tracking."

"You should farm him out to police stations."

"His attention span is too short to be of any help." Lyla crossed her arms over her chest, smiling at him. It would be best for the both of them if she got this over with quickly.

Tim cocked his head. "You okay?" he whispered.

I should wait until after the trial. I should just wait, but…I think I need to say this now. She bit her bottom lip, looking up at him. She steeled herself, unsure of what his reaction might be. "Um…I just…wanted to tell you something…I've thought about this, but…"

She looked up at him. Just say it Garrity. Her eyes closed briefly, her voice trembling. "I love you."

When he said nothing, she opened her eyes, looking up at him. He was smiling. He shrugged. "I love you too."

"I'm serious, I love you."

"And I'm serious too."

No, Tim you're not…she sighed, frowning at him, shaking her head quickly. A lock of hair fell in her eyes, but she made no move to push it back. "Tim, it's different…it's not…I love you, but…I'm…" She smiled briefly. "I'm in love with you, okay?" Her words tumbled from her lips. "It's been hard, okay? I keep thinking I'm betraying Michael, but I can't help how I feel and I'm in love with you and I…I know you're seeing Sarah and she's sweet and I don't want her hurt, but…"

Lyla laughed, wiping at her eyes, whispering again. "I love you so much Tim. You're my best friend and you're…you're not the first man I've been in love with, but..I just love you and I wanted you to know, because…it's only fair."

Tim remained quiet, his eyes on her. Waiting on…something, she thought, trying to read his face, but it was difficult. She took a deep breath, shrugging her shoulders, her eyes closing. "Tim, just…"

Turning away from him, she started walking back to the house, her heart feeling like it was in a vice. She'd said what she'd said; she shouldn't be surprised at his response being what it was. It was a lot to deal with, she was sure.

But it was a lot for her too.

She sobbed, reaching to cover her mouth with her hand, almost reaching the house when she felt his fingers reach out to grab her upper arm, whipping her around to his chest and his mouth crashing against hers.

Oh God, she thought briefly, her hand immediately grabbing at the side of his face, and her fingers curling into his hair. She held him against her tightly; her tears dripping down her cheeks, leaving stains in their wake.

His hands dug into her skin, lifting up her t-shirt as he wrapped his arms around her waist, her toes dusting against the tops of his boots as he lifted her clear up in the air.

When she broke away, she was smiling, happy and sad at once. Her fingers trembled, curving down his jaw, and her thumb brushing against his bottom lip. "What's…" she whispered, swallowing hard. She closed her eyes, trying to find her voice. It had disappeared somewhere along with her sanity. "What's this mean?"

"It means that I love you too. I just…" Tim shrugged, whispering, his voice thick. "I don't want you to regret this Garrity. If you need more time and…and I am not going to replace…"

Don't say that.

I know it's a fear, but…you don't need to worry about that.

"You're not a replacement," she whispered, touching his lips again with her fingertips, stilling him. She smiled, her arms around his shoulders. You're just you. You always have been.

After a few minutes of holding her close, he let go, whispering that he had to go, but he'd be back in a bit. She didn't ask where he was going or why, just that she let him go and spent the evening writing.

When he came back, she smiled up at him, unsure what to do now.

Tim walked over, taking her hand and lifted it up, helping her from the couch, where he twirled her around and lightly tugged her against his chest. "What are you doing?" she murmured, peering up at him.

Byron wandered between their feet as he swayed lightly with her in the center of the living room. Tim shook his head, whispering. "I'm just being with you. That's all."

That's all I want right now too, she thought, nervously lifting her lips up to his. It still felt weird. She expected it would. Expected it would feel strange for a while, yet.

For now though, she was content.

And that was something Lyla hadn't been able to say in a long time.


	20. She walks in beauty

_**A/N:**_This was going to be two chapters, but I couldn't seem to split it up to make sense. In any case, there are four more after this one (including the two epilogues). In this one, I went for some more Tim character development; hopefully it seems in-character for what he does. Thank you for the reviews and enjoy :)

* * *

_**20. She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; **_

_**And all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes;**_

"It's going to be okay."

That is a total crap thing to say Riggins, good God, just go put your head through a wall and get the rest of the brain damage over with.

He sighed hard, shaking his head. "I mean…nevermind." Best not to say a word. To just let her take her time, as slow as she wanted to take it. To be honest, Lyla seemed to be okay, sitting in a back room in the courthouse, having been brought in through the side door, because of the news media parked out front.

It wasn't trial of the century. The national news touched on it and had a couple of cameramen and anchors outside, but it wasn't televised and it didn't have enough sex and drama to really get the 24-hour cable news going. It was just a sad tragic event with a beautiful family at its center, so they were sniffing their noses into it a bit.

Tim wanted to go out there and kill them all, but he knew that would be frowned upon. He'd also made a vow not to break any laws, once he was out of jail.

He hated being in the courtroom; felt like his palms were sweating.

I'm doing it for her.

Lyla sat primly in her chair at the table, her hands folded and her head slightly bowed. He didn't ask what she was doing. He didn't have to ask. It was good to see she was praying. For a time, when he suggested maybe she go to church, she'd just scoffed at him and asked, genuinely curious. _"For all the good I've done in my life and for all I have given to God, why would I go now after all that's happened to me? What's God done for Lyla Garrity?"_

And then she'd realized that wasn't her. She was religious, she did go to church, and she did pray multiple times a day. She was just her own person, she didn't need someone telling her to do it anymore and she was good. She knew she was good.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people.

Buddy sat at the table, along with Pam, her mother. Tim wasn't sure what to call her, so he just decided he wouldn't speak with her if he could help it. Lyla's siblings weren't around and neither was her…neither was Michael's family.

He glanced up when the door opened, her lawyer stepping inside, along with the chief prosecutor, a very able-bodied young man and older female as his associate. "It's time Lyla," the prosecutor announced.

Lyla waited a beat, finishing her prayer and stood up, turning towards him. She reached for his hand, taking it into hers and walking slowly to the door. He gave her a quick squeeze.

I'll be here no matter what, he thought, almost trembling from nervousness. He hated feeling like this. It was like he was in a stupid fancy restaurant or something, he thought, wondering why he was the nervous one and she was as cool as a cucumber.

That's Lyla.

They walked through the courthouse to the room, with tons of people waiting outside. Lyla ducked her head and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shielding her from curious onlookers and media that were hanging outside. He stepped into the courtroom, doing everything he could not to look at the table to his left, as he let go of Lyla, walking with her to the front bench.

The room was packed. Tim sat down beside her, taking her hand and squeezing. She turned her head, smiling at him. "I'll be okay," she whispered.

I know you will, but this makes me feel better too.

They'd been together now for about three months. It had been over a year since the tragedy and almost a year since he showed up at her house to find what needed to be set right again. Lyla Garrity hadn't left his thoughts one day since he walked into her bungalow and found the pile of blankets that was her on the couch.

Tim wondered what would have happened if he'd said no to Buddy. If he outright refused to come find her, to check on her and ensure she was okay. He didn't suppose that would happen. Eventually he'd have gone looking, curious, wanting to see her rather than send some flowers saying he was sorry.

Lyla was remarkably unaffected at that moment, sitting ramrod straight on the bench, her legs crossed. She wore a simple black pantsuit and a gray blouse, with her cross necklace resting over her collarbone. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail and she wore minimal makeup, but she was so naturally beautiful that it didn't matter if she wore makeup or not, people still turned their heads.

And they wanted to see the scar, which was on display.

Tim knew it was a bit of subtle messing with the jury. The prosecutor wanted them to see the scar, to not have to just look at photos of the injury and aftermath. Tim found that foul, but said nothing. If it meant getting a needle in the guy's arm who did it to her, he'd be happy.

He glanced around the room, leaning to whisper to her. "Where is everyone?"

"They come in later," she whispered. She pointed to one door. "They bring in the…they bring him in and then the jury. So they aren't prejudiced by the shackles."

They know they're there, what does it matter, Tim wondered. He didn't like this side of the justice system. It shouldn't be a show. It should be facts. One way or the other.

The door she'd just pointed towards opened and she stiffened, her eyes closing, allowing Tim to rotate his head towards the man shuffling towards the table in a suit. He looked mean and ugly, defiant, but incredibly thin, so it was easy to see why he didn't want to physically fight with Michael, but rather used a weapon.

Tim just watched, wondering what that man was thinking. He didn't care, not deep down, but he was a little curious. He glanced at the other door, seeing the jury line up. Find him guilty, he wanted to get up and yell, but that was wrong too.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lyla wasn't looking up, she had her gaze focused on the corner of her high heeled boot. He saw her playing with one of her rings or pulling on lint on her knee. Anything but looking at the defendant.

"All rise."

He stood with her, still holding her hand, until the judge entered. Maureen Keefer, her name was, Tim read from the nameplate on the bench. He wondered why it was called it a bench. It was more of a pulpit.

The judge cleared her throat. "Please be seated."

They did a ton of administrative stuff to begin with, which had Lyla shifting nervously in her seat. He glanced at her again. Please just get this over with, he silently begged. He had to get her out of here; being in Nashville wasn't the problem, but…

Well he just was worried, even though he knew he had little reason to be worried. Lyla had overcome so much. He looked down at his boots, finally lifting his head when the prosecutor announced clearly that they were calling Lyla.

"Is this your final witness counselor?" the judge asked.

The prosecutor shook his head. "No your honor, we request to add a character witness."

Keefer lifted an eyebrow. "Character witness? Explain."

What are you doing, Tim wondered, glancing at the defense, which was scrambling. Even Lyla looked confused.

"Tim Riggins, a friend of the victim."

There was a flurry of activity. He blinked a few times. He'd been asked by the prosecutor if he was available to testify, but it was only in a last ditch scenario. He didn't know if this was that, but…hell he had no idea. He'd get up there and talk, but he didn't know why they wanted him speaking.

Lyla was the one who went through the tragedy.

After about fifteen minutes of verbal sparring from the lawyers and a couple of asides to the judge, Keefer finally leaned back. "Mr. Riggins has been added to the witness list, the defense will be allotted time to conduct a background of Mr. Riggins before questioning on cross-examination. Call your witness Prosecutor."

"The state calls Lyla Garrity to the stand."

He leaned in, kissing her cheek. "Knock them dead," he whispered, squeezing her hand. He pointed to his eyes, silently letting her know to focus on him if it got too difficult.

She nodded, sliding from the bench and walking forward, murmurs following after her. The bailiff swore her into the witness box and Tim finally got a good look at Lyla ready for battle.

Once again, prim and proper, with her ankles crossed and hands likely folded in her lap, sitting at rapt attention for the questions, not smiling or looking uninterested, but waiting. Her eyes still did not look at the defense. Tim knew she would, when she was ready. Right now, she couldn't.

They'd prepared for this with the prosecutor the last few days. She'd seen the photos they'd show her. Of Michael. Of Baby John. Of her injuries. So she wouldn't freak out, but Tim knew that anything was possible.

The prosecutor began with simple questions and he just stared, not breaking his gaze from Lyla. Come on baby, he thought, seeing her choke up a few times, but she was so good. So strong. He smiled a little. That's my Garrity. Stay strong. Just stay strong. You can do it.

He silently cheered her on from his place in the front, waiting for her to crack. Now and then her voice grew thick with tears, but she didn't break. Until the very end of the questioning, when the prosecutor whispered, but loud enough for everyone to hear. "Ms. Garrity, the man you speak of, the one with the knife, is he in this courtroom at this very moment?"

"Yes," she answered, her voice more of a sob.

Come on, he begged. Just a few more minutes.

"Where is he?"

Lyla lifted her finger, pointing at the man in the suit, with the mean eyes and sneer and tattoos creeping up his neck and down his arms and hands. "That man is the one who attacked me and Michael…who…" she choked, sobbing. She lifted her fingers to her eyes, crying. "He's the one who cut my throat and he…he wrenched my arm and he stepped on it and he kicked me in the stomach and…cut me there too. He's the one who stabbed Michael…my fiancé."

And then she broke.

She quickly recovered, when people began to make noise, the judge calling for quiet and the defense demanding a recess, but getting it denied. Lyla wiped at her eyes with her Kleenex, staring at the man, her voice growing cool all of a sudden. "That's the man who was more interested in a score he couldn't get than the lives of two innocent people. Who killed my baby. Who destroyed what would have been my life…he did it. I know because I know his eyes. I could see them, when he looked over at what he'd done. He wasn't remorseful. He just took Michael's wallet and ran for it with the other one."

Lyla smiled, long and slow, tears still falling down her face. "There's a special level in hell for people like that, I tell myself. I hope one day to be able to find out if he made it there."

The courtroom fell silent.

Until the defense stood, requesting that her final comments be stricken for some reason. Tim really, really could have gotten up and just lost it in that moment.

And especially when the judge granted it.

Lyla just shook her head, still smiling a little.

She'd be okay, Tim thought, nodding, his eyes meeting hers. She returned the smile, quick, before it was the defense's turn, after a recess.

He waited for her to come to him, not getting up until she stood beside him. They walked out together, with Lyla ignoring her parents, both of whom were more emotional than she was at the moment. Selfish, Tim thought, of Buddy and Pam. He loved Buddy like the man was his own father, but they were both selfish people.

Ignoring the cameras, they made their way through the courthouse to a place to sit outside. Lyla collapsed into the seat, leaning forward and folding her hands over her face, sighing hard.

She dropped her hands to the table. "That wasn't as bad as I thought," she whispered. She ran her tongue over her teeth, glancing at him. "If they make you testify, you tell them everything."

He stiffened. The prosecutor had said that some of the stuff could be construed as medical and that the defense would really hammer at him, to try to get him to lie or mess up when he was talking about Lyla so they could get it thrown out. He shook his head. "I know."

"I'm serious Tim. You tell them how bad I was, all of it. Even if they want you to say it to make me seem insane, you do it."

Okay, okay, relax.

He glanced at some vending machines, gesturing towards them. "Want something?"

"Water please."

He stood, going to get her water. Instead of just going straight to the machine, he walked in a big circle, just to give himself some time to think. I don't like to talk about this kind of stuff. I don't really want everyone in the world to know, but…he sighed, shoving coins into the machine for the overly expensive bottle of water.

They sat together for the next hour, during the recess. Lyla wasn't hungry and neither was he, but Buddy and Pam had gone out to get food. "I hope like hell they both stop flirting with each other," she mumbled, sipping at her water.

"I thought Buddy was with Angela Collette."

"He is. Mom is fighting with Kevin. They're selfish. It works for them," she grumbled. She leaned back in her seat, glancing at him. She quirked her lip in a small smile. "After this do you want to get out of here?"

"Hell yes."

"I mean not go back to the hotel, I mean after all this the trial and everything, do you want to get away?"

Get away? I live in a retreat. Tim shrugged. He supposed…he wasn't sure though, he thought, distancing himself a little from her. He had to think about some things. Some things that they…they needed to talk about. He shrugged. "Depends."

"Mexico."

Mexico, huh? "Sounds like fun."

Lyla smiled.

That wasn't a yes, Garrity, he thought, his brow wrinkling. He reached for her bottle of water, taking a long pull to coat his dry throat, but that didn't seem to work.

He wanted this over with.

Several minutes later, neither of them was smiling, as she was being put through the ringer on cross-examination. More than once Tim wanted to get up and scream. Or punch the damn defense attorney through a window. How dare he try to discredit her? The victim!?

When it was over, he barely had time to give her a hug before he was being called. The last witness.

He swore to tell the truth, glancing at the defendant. I'll kill you, he thought to himself, sitting back in the hard chair, his hands folding in his lap. He hated the suit he'd had to wear. The tie was strangling him.

"Can you please state your name and relationship to Ms. Garrity for the record?" the prosecutor asked, standing at his podium.

"Tim Riggins, I'm a friend of Lyla's," he answered, not looking at the jury. It would be too hard.

"Mr. Riggins can you describe how long you have known the victim?"

"Relevance?" the defense demanded.

They fought back and forth for a minute; Tim had no idea why the objection. He knew her, he was testifying because he knew her, and they needed one last person to show her state of mind. Impact, it was called, the lawyers said.

He finally was able to speak. "I've known her for the last…twenty or so years. We grew up together."

"You two were high school sweethearts?"

"I guess."

"Mr. Riggins can you describe how you came to know Lyla in the last year?"

Tim glanced at the jury this time, speaking directly towards them, like he was told to do. "Her father told me she'd been in this…accident. I didn't think she wanted to see me. So…I didn't do anything until he said she was really bad off and needed someone."

"Why did her father think you would be the best one? Why not a medical professional?"

Here it came. The hard part, he thought, stiffening, and his voice dropping a couple of degrees. "Six years ago I plead guilty to grand theft auto for running a chop shop out of my brother's shop," he whispered. I swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, here I am lying.

Pretty ironic.

"Relevance?" the defense demanded again.

"Getting there your honor," the prosecutor, Tim was seriously trying to remember his name. What was it? He'd only heard it half a dozen times that day. Mr. Ashburn, that's what the judge called him.

Ashburn returned his attention to the stand. "Explain please, Mr. Riggins."

He felt a muscle tick in his jaw. Do it for Lyla, he thought. Get over your issues and just do it for her. He released a long breath, continuing to speak quietly. "I was not in a good place when I left prison. My brother, who was always close with me and who…" Who was the reason I was in jail in the first place. "Who was…part of the reason why I did what I did, and I weren't in the best place and…and I didn't know what I wanted to do."

"You were wandering?"

"Yes," he whispered. He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting Lyla's. Her brow was wrinkled in a frown, listening to him intently, while Buddy sat beside her, holding her hand. He smiled a little. "I didn't have a clue what to do. A friend…an old friend came back to town for Christmas break and she…" He shrugged. Tyra helped save him. "She helped me see what I wanted and she helped me stop being angry."

"Angry?" Ashburn whispered, smiling a little. "Like Ms. Garrity?"

"Yes," he answered, still watching Lyla. He nodded, whispering. "She was angry at what had happened. She was wandering. Only instead of wandering for about a month like me, she wandered for five months. Instead of not having a job or a future because she broke the law, she was wandering because she didn't have her fiancé or her baby."

Ashburn proceeded to ask him about her state of mind, how she was on the pills and everything and how he got her off of them and she was lucid. He put things into evidence, to go to Lyla's state of mind and how her doctors had cleared her and all sorts of other legal crap.

Towards the end, when Tim didn't think he had to be sitting there in that hard chair any longer, it was the defense's turn. The attorney stood, buttoning up her suit jacket and stepped towards the podium. She opened up her notebook and glanced at him, welcomed him and thanked him.

"I have one question for you, this shouldn't take long," the defense said, smiling a little. She smiled again, more of a smirk.

"Shoot."

"Are you in love with Ms. Garrity?"

There was some commotion, as the lawyers started to bicker, but Tim smiled, looking around them at Lyla. He cleared his throat, talking over them. "Yes."

They stopped, looking to him. The defense smiled again. "And is it true, Mr. Riggins, that you are in a relationship with Ms. Garrity?"

"Depends what you mean by relationship."

"You're sleeping together, that a relationship?"

"Whoa, your Honor!" Ashburn exclaimed, flying up from the seat, while Lyla's eyes widened from her seat behind him.

They fought some more.

Tim waved his hand, once he was allowed to answer the question. Prudes. Rude prudes, he figured. He shrugged. "No."

"Mr. Riggins, you are under oath."

"And I'm telling the truth, I'm not sleeping with Lyla Garrity." He ran his tongue over his teeth, smiling slightly, meeting her eyes again for a moment before he glanced at the jury. This was why he was here. "Lyla always supported me," he said, quietly. He shrugged. "Even when I didn't want it, she was still there."

I so don't want to do this.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The court reporter behind him was typing fast. Clackety-clack clack of long fingernails on the small keys. He shifted again. This was like his worst nightmare. Talking about feelings.

Total strangers all watching him, listening to his very word.

Do it for Lyla.

And that was why he took a deep breath, slowly releasing it and pushed aside the huge ball of nerves in his stomach and ignored his sweating palms. You'd think he was in a fancy restaurant or something right now, he thought idly, focusing his attention on the jury.

"Lyla Garrity was the strongest person in the world to me. She…our best friend in high school broke his neck and she was sixteen years old and…and taking care of someone she was going to spend the rest of her life with, who was going to be in a wheelchair the rest of his life," he said, his voice trembling a little. He blinked a few times, mumbling. "No one believed she could do it, but she did. She…she just did it. Yeah, she made mistakes, but she was the strongest person. My best friend was in the hospital and I couldn't see him, but Lyla could go every single day and help him in and out of the chair and prepare to give up her life for him."

Stay on point, he thought, glaring at the defense, who seemed nervous, like she'd opened a can of worms. Never ask a question you don't have the answer to, he thought, wasn't that rule number one for lawyers?

"Mr. Riggins," she said, nervous.

"Continue," the judge ordered him, before he could say anything.

He swallowed hard, continuing. "Lyla…she lived her life and overcame everything. She helped me. She…she wanted me to go to college. I didn't, but she believed I could and hell at least I got in," he laughed. He bit his lip hard, drawing blood.

Now came the hard part.

"Lyla Garrity, the Lyla I knew, could never be knocked down. She deserved the world." She deserves it, he thought, meeting her eyes. She was frowning at him, her brow wrinkled, and her eyes shining. Even Buddy looked ready to cry. He smiled, shaky. "And she didn't deserve to be cut open on a sidewalk, her life destroyed in one night…she…I found one of the strongest people I'd ever known lying on her couch, destroyed by someone…her life was gone. She'd lost the guy she loved, was gonna' spend her life with, and she lost her baby."

"Lyla's a caretaker, she has to take care of things and to lose her child was…" Tim trailed off, swallowing hard again. He glanced at the jury. "Devastating in more ways than you can ever imagine. I had to teach her to do simple things again. You wake up in the morning and you get in the shower and you get dressed, right?" He laughed, barking hard, finally glancing to the defense lawyer, laughing again. "Lyla couldn't do it. She couldn't get out of bed. She was destroyed. Someone destroyed her for no reason. Just did. For what? Two-hundred bucks?"

He laughed again, smiling, glancing at Lyla. "So there's my character witness testimony or whatever you want to call it. The strongest person in the world was broken down and now look at her." He gestured to Lyla, who smiled gain. He grinned. "She's sitting here and not crying. She's alive again. After she died."

"For two-hundred bucks," he whispered, sliding his eyes towards the defendant, pulling his lip up. He lifted his eyebrows. "That high you got afterward is gonna' have to carry you the rest of your life in a hole," he finished.

"Mr. Riggins," the judge said, breaking the sudden silence in the courtroom during his speech. She cleared her throat. "Leave the commentary out of it. Defense, any further questions for this witness?"

The defense attorney closed her eyes, sighing hard. "Your Honor, as nice as that was, Mr. Riggins is not a trained psychological professional. We request his testimony be stricken from the record and instruct the jury to disregard."

Tim didn't care what they were talking about now. He was dismissed and stood up, leaving the courtroom without a look at Lyla. He needed air. That was one of the hardest things he'd had to do.

He emerged into the sunny back courtyard, thankfully the only one there, taking deep breaths, trying to bring down his heart rate. It felt like it was pounding so hard it was going to just leap out of his throat.

Damnit Tim, you probably screwed her in there.

He just couldn't take it, staring at that self-righteous punk. Just looking around, like he wasn't on trial for murdering an innocent and by all accounts good man and leading to the death of a baby. And destroying Lyla.

The door opened quietly behind him.

He sighed, his hands on his hips, and closed his eyes. "Garrity," he whispered. He sighed again. "Please go away."

"What you said…is that all true?"

He chuckled, his eyes still closed. "I was under oath."

"You didn't go to jail because you chopped those cars. You said you did, under oath…you kind of already broke it. It's called perjury."

I don't want to think about that crap right now, he thought again, glancing over his shoulder, smiling a little at her. She was just standing on the stoop, in front of the closed door, her arms crossed over her chest, and watching him. Curious. Her brow was still wrinkled, the little frown line between her eyebrows deep, like a 'v.'

Tim turned around, facing her completely. He nodded towards her, whispering. "What did they decide?"

She licked her lips, whispering. "They're on a break. The judge is…the prosecutor is pretty sure she's going to throw out your testimony. Say that it's too based on emotion…might not be relevant or something, I don't know…whatever happens happens."

If that guy walks…

"He won't walk," Lyla whispered, lifting her eyes. She smiled again, shrugging. "Too much evidence. He should have taken the deal they offered a couple months ago. Kids these days," she chuckled. She was trying to make light of this terrible situation.

My how far you've come, he thought.

He sighed again, his hands still on his hips. The tie at his throat was loose now, no longer strangling him. The minute he could get into his jeans and snap-up shirts and boots would be a happy minute for him.

I need to know something first.

He nodded towards her, looking around the courtyard, her eyes on anything but him. "Garrity."

"Hmm?"

"What do you want?"

They'd been doing this…thing now for a year. A little over a year.

Whatever the hell it was. Friends…and the last couple months, since she admitted she still had feelings for him and was in love with him and he broke up with Sarah, and…he wasn't sure what they were doing. They didn't really date. She still lived in her little townhouse she had in Austin, working for the construction company, and working on her book. He was in Dillon, of course.

The few times they'd come close to doing anything physical, she'd balked. Or he'd balked. They just weren't ready yet.

And now this whole thing…

Lyla smiled, her eyes brightening a little. "You."

That's not the right answer, he thought, frowning again. He'd been thinking about it…the last few weeks. It was strange, to be thinking of the future the way he was. He just…he didn't want her moving back to Dillon. Didn't want her to just…live for something else.

Was this how you felt Garrity? When you moved on from me?

She needed something else. She needed…she needed a reason. He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat. I guess it really does all come back around, he thought, opening his eyes and smiling sadly at her.

It dawned on her.

After a moment, she quirked her lip again, glancing away.

"What else do you want?" he asked. Say something else. Say you want a real job. Say you want the moon. Say anything; just don't say me. There's got to be more to it than me Lyla. Please.

You deserve more than me. Maybe it took me a long time to realize it. Maybe I'll be miserable forever, but you deserve more. At least right now.

She nodded her head a little, licking her lips and shaking her head slightly. She finally lifted her eyes, which were shining with tears. "You," she managed to get out, before she bit down on her lower lip, tears trickling down her cheeks. "I want you Tim and that's not enough and believe me, I know it."

And you, once upon a time ago, lived for someone else. I don't want it for you anymore than you wanted it for me.

Tim stepped towards her, reaching to wrap his arms around her. They were still in those different places.

She buried her face into his shoulder, crying. "I love you."

I know. He smoothed his hand over her hair, murmuring. "One day Garrity, I just want you to…do something for you. You deserve it."

I love you so much too. More than I thought I could love anyone, he thought, swaying lightly with her.

When she pulled away, she kissed him, long and slow.

Goodbye, he thought, returning the kiss.

They took each other's hands, going back into the courtroom. The prosecution rested and the judge issued the orders for tomorrow, they left and went about the rest of their evening.

Tim would have preferred leaving for Texas that night, but they were going to stay for the verdict, whenever that was.

"You can leave," she whispered, a couple days later, after closing arguments. She was sitting outside in the little courtyard nursing an iced coffee during one of the breaks. She sighed, nodding to Buddy, who was on his cell phone, talking to an investor. "I have my dad." She sighed, rolling her eyes and smiling again. "And my mom."

"You sure?"

"I'll be fine Tim."

Something tells me that you really will be fine, he thought, leaning in and giving her one last kiss, before he got into his truck and started the drive back to Dillon.

Three days later, when he pulled into his driveway, missing her and missing Byron, he glanced down at his phone, which was buzzing in the cupholder. He picked it up; it had been on silent for much the trip. He just needed his thoughts.

"Guilty" was all it said.

Thank God, he thought, closing his eyes in relief.

A moment later, his phone buzzed again. He picked it back up.

"I feel no different than I did this morning. Other than I really want to finish my book, now that there is an ending to this ordeal."

There wouldn't be a real ending Garrity. You're going to have to live with that for the rest of your life.

Tim sighed, closing his eyes and remained in the car.

A moment later, he smiled wide.

She really would be fine.

And for once in his life he couldn't wait to read a book.


	21. All that's best of dark and bright

_**21. And all that's best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes; **_

_**Thus mellowed to that tender light, Which heaven to gaudy day denies.**_

This is so silly of me.

Lyla stood in the bookstore, wearing a hat, giant Jackie O style sunglasses, and a coat with the collar upturned, staring at the cover of her book, sitting on a pedestal in front of the bookstore, a couple blocks away from the Good Morning America studios, where she would soon be doing an interview for press.

She released a long breath, reaching to touch the cover of the book. On it was a photograph of a farmhouse, shrouded in mist, with a prairie in the background, a small dark figure, a person, standing in the background, looking out at it; the title of the book, _The Castle in Texas_, swept across the top of the cover, with 'Lyla Garrity' in small block letters on the bottom.

The publishers weren't sure that the title and the image on the cover would make sense to people, but they thought it had a certain air of mystery that people would want to pick up the book. They suggested she drop a possible subtitle, so she did.

So she did what they said to a point. She refused to change certain situations. She didn't want to tone down the main character's desperation and anguish. She didn't want to turn the best friend into a perfect white knight.

It ended up moving from more of a first-person…diary of sorts into a novel. It was easier for people to read, to understand, and to relate to, the publisher said. She went with whatever her literary agent said, a friend of Jason's with whom he'd called in a few favors so she could get her.

And now here I am, about a year and a half later from when she first sent that manuscript out to Julie Saracen. I'm 30-years old now.

It had been three years since she was in that gutter in Memphis. John would have been three-years old. Michael and her would have been married. It would have been nice, living in Nashville, maybe.

Now she lived in a loft in Austin, where she wrote. She just wrote. It was so freeing. She took courses at UT, to hone her skills and then she'd go to Lake Travis or Lady Bird Lake or just sit on campus and just write. She'd find some little bar with live music and write.

All of it by hand.

The publisher wanted another book. They wanted to know about the best friend. Give us another story; give us something about him.

Maybe.

She was working on something else right now. A story set in high school. A group of kids who just wanted escape, in some way or some how.

Lyla flicked open the cover of the book, turning the pages, staring at the typeface on the dedication page.

_"This novel is dedicated to those who have to crawl from the darkness. May you all find your castle where you can recover. This novel is also dedicated to the many loves of my life. Two were taken from me too soon, one helped see this book come to fruition, and the other is out there somewhere, finding his own castle."_

I wonder if he'll read the book.

Lyla closed it and set it back on the pedestal, stepping away from the table and leaving the bookstore, walking down the chilly autumn New York street, listening to the hustle and bustle. It was really nice. She tossed her hair out from beneath the beret she'd been wearing, shaking her hand through it and removing the large sunglasses, trading them for a pair of aviators, which she favored.

She went up into the studio, meeting her agent, mom, and dad in the lobby where she said she would. "Sorry I'm late," she apologized.

"We better get you upstairs and into makeup," her agent, Arlene, chattered, pushing her towards a revolving door towards the elevators. She glanced sideways. "Where were you all morning anyway, you weren't answering your phone, I need to know if the topic of your white knight is acceptable for the interview, they want to know upsets."

"No," she replied. The White Knight, as Arlene called him, because she didn't know his real name, was never allowed to be a topic for the interviews. She'd done several of them now. On various networks and for tons of different magazines and newspapers.

No talking about Tim.

"This is actually a very good venue for you to bring him up, Heather is a great compassionate interviewer."

"No."

I don't talk about Tim.

Since they separated at Nashville, they'd of course seen each other. They were best friends. Just…they just weren't anything beyond that. Tim needed space from her; he'd all but said so. He'd helped her. He'd saved her life, basically, and that was a lot for him to handle.

They both needed the space.

No trip to Mexico for them, although she did go by herself, sitting in the sand and writing like a maniac for a week, subsisting off of margaritas and tortilla chips.

Lyla separated from the group, to go sit in hair and makeup. She picked up a magazine, flicking through it, about to ask if she could get something to drink before they applied her lip-gloss, when she heard someone call out her name. She turned, laughing and grinning, jumping from the chair. "Jason!"

Jason laughed, wheeling towards her. "I always knew you'd be sitting under the lights one day, give me a hug," he demanded, lifting his arms up to hug her.

She leaned down, squeezing him tight. "I love you," she replied, pulling away and kissing his cheek. She squeezed his hands next, holding onto them and swaying them beside her thighs. It was so good to see him. "You're here for the interview?"

"Wouldn't miss it. My office is a few blocks away. Thought I'd come pop in and Arlene got me a pass, but…" Jason trailed off, smiling softly. He ran his tongue over his teeth, keeping his voice soft. "I found someone. His tag said that if found, I had to return him to Lyla Garrity."

Byron? But Byron was in Austin, with her sister as the dog-sitter. She wrinkled her nose. "You brought Byron here?"

"What? No!"

A door opened, and she lifted her face, her eyes lighting up even brighter than they had when Jason entered. "Tim," she breathed, hurrying towards him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling his go around her. They were so warm. Oh I missed you, she thought, inhaling his peppermint scent. She let go, stepping back, still grinning.

Tim was here! He left Texas! She felt like someone needed to make sure that hell wasn't a bit chilly. "You came."

"I did," Tim whispered, squeezing her wrists tight. He glanced down at Jason, nodding towards him. "He fed me and took me on a walk. So you don't need to worry about that."

"He does make messes when he gets excited, so put him on hardwood," Jason teased.

No, he just cleans up messes, she thought, looking up at Tim. She cupped his cheek in her palm, her other hand resting on the back of his neck, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, which were already pursed, waiting.

Out of the corner of her eye, she swore she saw a flash, probably a roving photographer, looking for stills. Arlene told her to be on the watch. She turned her head, to tell whomever it was that she didn't want that photo published, but it was too late. No cameraman in sight.

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, dropping down barely a peg in the sky-high heeled ankle boots they'd given her in wardrobe. It was strange that she got to borrow these gorgeous clothes when she did these interviews. They always tried to turn her into…well Arlene called it 'sexy chic.'

Lyla just figured they were trying to capitalize on her beauty while still being demure. It was hard to make a tragic figure sexed up, but they tried to do it tastefully.

She let go of Tim, glancing at a PA approaching her quickly. "Five minutes Ms. Garrity," the young girl chirped, running off and chattering into her headset.

"I better get to my post," Lyla chuckled, glancing at Tim and Jason. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. My boys, she thought, sighing hard. What is it with me and boys? I fall in love too easily, she thought, wiping at the corner of her eye.

"You crying Garrity?"

"It's just my mascara itching." Lies. She dropped her hand to her hip. I better get out there. She glanced at Tim. Her lips swished around for a second. "How are you?" she asked.

It encompassed a lot.

He smiled warmly, his hands shoved into his absolutely ancient sheepskin and denim jacket. "I'm great Garrity," he answered. He smiled a little wider. "I read your book. It was good."

Her cheeks flushed pink. That was a fear of hers. His reaction to the book. Her eyes closed tight again and she nodded once more. "Thank you."

"How are you doing?"

When she looked up, she saw that Jason had disappeared, probably off to get a seat in the recording studio next door. She smiled, quirking her lip, her bangs falling into her eyes. How am I doing?

The men who had destroyed her life were in prison. Life without parole. The accomplice wanted forgiveness, but she'd replied in her letter to him that it was a hard thing to forgive, especially if he knew wrong, but it wasn't Christian of her to hold such a grudge, so she forgave him, provided he atone for all his sins.

A few days later, her attorney called, letting her know that the young man had decided to seek a degree in prison and that any money some of his twisted followers were giving to him would be donated to a local church.

Good, she thought, even if it didn't make her feel better. The ringleader, the one who did everything, hadn't reached out. He was hardened already. He didn't care. Neither did she. He could rot in a cell for the rest of his life; Lyla wouldn't continue to think of him.

I quit my job, because of the advancements on this novel and her next one. She could live comfortably off of it, if she remained frugal. Arlene informed her that she would be a rich woman.

I want the money to go to Michael's mother and family too, she'd ordered the business manager that Arlene had hired for her. She wanted money to go to bereavement funds for parents who lost babies. To pay for funeral costs and medical care. She wanted money to funds for premature children, to help them survive. She wanted nothing of it.

She smiled; lifting her eyes again, warm. I feel warm all over, she thought, shaking her head slightly again. "I'm actually…feeling good…Byron helps," she teased. She tucked her hair behind her ear. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "You seeing anyone?"

Tim licked his lips, shrugging slightly. "Tyra and I…tried again."

"How many times are you going to try with her?" she tried to laugh, but it was more of a choking sob. She lifted her finger to her nose, stifling a sniff. Tears before going on camera would not be flattering.

"Well it didn't last two weeks and I'd say now it's completely over." Tim smiled again, whispering, lifting his eyes up to study her for a second, whispering. "She's dating one of her instructors. Some old guy, she's in love with him…he's not bad, I guess, for someone who is like…forty."

That was practically ten years older than the two of them. Not very old, when you thought about what we've gone through, she thought. She nodded again. "Sounds like you…"

"I started my business."

When she was in Dillon over the summer, she knew he was thinking about it. He had the paperwork, but he was terrified of failing. Of being 'that guy.' She was proud of him…for doing it. "Good for you," she whispered. She grinned wide. "I knew you could do it."

Tim chuckled, shrugging. "Yeah," he trailed off, sighing. He closed his eyes briefly. "How is…how are you doing…"

"Three years," she replied, interrupting him. She knew what he was going to ask anyway. It just got…easier to live through life. "No pills," she said, shaking her head quickly, not breaking her eyes from him. "And I can sleep through the night and…sometimes I get nightmares…" They faded faster now. She sighed hard, shrugging. "It just gets easier, but I still miss them terribly."

"You will."

I know I will. I'll always miss them. My baby and my Michael.

But it was time for Lyla Garrity to move beyond that.

It had long been time, she thought, thinking of the couple of dates she'd been on, just to…get her feet wet, her sister had told her. Just to see how it felt. She didn't sleep with any of them. She barely went on second dates. All she did was try to see if she could do it.

And she could.

"Ms. Garrity, we're on now," the same PA said, coming to her side. She gestured to the stands, where the live audience was sitting. "Sir, you can take a seat next to the gentleman in the wheelchair, just beyond that white line from the stage. Thank you."

Tim gave her an incredulous look as if to say 'did she just call me sir!?'

Yes, she did, Lyla laughed, walking out onto the stage, waving at the crowd that applauded for her as she took a seat next to the host, smiling and just generally being pleasant.

The interview went as they usually did; all were coordinated and scripted. Lyla glanced at Arlene, who was standing in the wings, next to the executive producer at their soundboard. She nodded slightly, glancing towards Tim, who was just watching.

Arlene nodded in kind, said something to the EP, who whispered into their microphone, which fed into the hidden earpiece in the relatively new co-host's ear, some soap opera star that Lyla didn't know, but her mother did, and whom her mother adored. Her name was Heather something or another. Some new up and comer on the hosting scene.

She was actually pretty good, Lyla thought; don't judge a book by its cover, despite the blonde bombshell looks, Heather was very compassionate. Heather pressed the earpiece deeper into her ear, smiling warmly, not missing a beat. "Now Lyla, I have to say, that it's rare to read a book with two leading characters, a male and a female, and not having them end up together at the end. The best friend in this novel…he walks away from the heroine…he helps heal her and take care of her, but he walks away when she wants something more…is there a real-life incident in your life that was the mirror for this particular storyline in your novel?"

Lyla licked her lips, smiling slightly, glancing at Tim. She waited a beat. "You mean my real life Chase?"

Tim immediately sat up.

"I wasn't aware there was a real-life person, would you like to explain for us?" Heather chuckled, but remained soft, listening. Like a good friend gossiping over a cup of coffee.

"Yes, I've been very up-front that this novel is merely a fictionalized version of my life," Lyla whispered, but lifted her voice, turning to the audience, and keeping her hands folded in her lap. "It was a coping mechanism for me during what was the worst moment of my life. I didn't think I was going to survive, but there was a man…there was a real life Chase. I wanted something more…he wanted me to have the world and not just him. You see it mirrored a situation we found ourselves in about seven years before…he wanted just me and I wanted him to have more. We were on different paths then and we were on different paths now…however…"

Lyla took another deep breath. Guess this was it. She made sure not to look at him; she didn't want to single him out and make it obvious.

She shrugged her shoulders, whispering. "It's a novel. I just wanted to confirm, for the curious people out there, that yes, Chase exists. There are truly good men out there and I want people to walk away from reading this book, no matter their situation and realize that no matter what they are going through, they can find that one place on Earth and that one person in their life who offers their hand and helps them walk through hell and there are truly good people out there who will drop everything and who will help a widow with her mourning. Who will allow her to write a novel about it and who will let her have the world, because that's what he thinks she deserves."

Lyla took another deep breath, smiling wide. "Chase exists. There really is a castle in Texas. I won't say his name; I won't say anything further on the topic. I probably made it worse, but…" She nodded again, whispering. "Yeah. He's real. He's a real guy, with a real castle, and he is the…one of the most complex people in the world, but he just wants the simplest things. And he has all of them."

Except for me. If he wants me.

Heather cleared her throat, obviously choked up. She released a long breath, reaching to pat Lyla's hand. "Thank you for sharing your story with us, both today and in this novel. Everyone in the audience will be receiving a signed copy of the novel to take home with them today and for those of you watching at home, _The Castle in Texas_ is available in bookstores now. Thank you."

The red light went off and Lyla heard applause, a few people standing up. She smiled awkwardly. I just had something horrible happen to me and wrote about it. It's okay.

She finally rotated her head, staring at Tim, who was just looking back, his face held in his hand, watching her. He wasn't moving. Or smiling. Or really doing anything. Lyla extricated herself from the microphones and stepped off the stage, ignoring Tim and everyone else in her little group to go change out of the outfit they stuck her in.

Once she was back in her comfortable jeans, boots, and her flannel shirt, with her pea coat draped over her arm, she followed one of the assistants out to the waiting area, where her parents were and Jason and Arlene.

Where the hell was Tim?

"I don't know where he went," Jason answered honestly. He shrugged, nodding towards the door, his voice soft. "He just left."

Damnit to hell.

I can't think of his emotions right now. My book is selling well, I'm just…I'm just trying to do what he wanted me to do and what I wanted him to do. Look at both of us; we did it.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, leaving the group and the building, stepping outside and hailing a cab. The publisher had a company car for her, but she didn't care for it. She glanced at the cabbie. "The Plaza, please."

I'm not going to stay in New York any longer than necessary. Her flight left late that night, but she was planning on leaving earlier. She had a stop to make before Austin anyway…she just wanted to do something.

Several hours later, she stopped her rental car, which she was only taking for the night, and climbed out, glancing over the roof at the stones on the hilltop.

She pushed the door shut, stepping around the front of the car.

This was the first time she'd been here by herself.

All the other times she was with someone. Her father and mother. Michael's mother and siblings. Tim. I'm all alone, she thought, stepping up to the headstones.

John and Michael Kelly.

It felt like her knees gave away beneath her and she fell down in front of them, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the engravings on the granite. She closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

I feel okay.

I will be okay.

"I still miss you," she whispered, speaking to Michael's headstone. Her knuckles reached out, touching it. She closed her eyes again, her voice quiet. "I still miss you so much, but…you know I can go days without thinking of you. When I realize it, I don't feel bad or guilty anymore. Then sometimes I do feel guilty for that. Metaguilt or something…."

Lyla shook her head, lifting her face to the sun, smiling when it seemed to peek out beyond the clouds, washing over her. Like a baptism, she thought, opening her eyes and dropping her eyes back to the stones. "I want you to know that I will always love you…I will always miss you, but…I can go outside at night now without panicking…I can wake up in the morning and be glad to be awake…" She wiped at her eyes, laughing, her hands slapping on her knees. She glanced to John's stone. "I want another child…you will always be my first child. I didn't get you for longer than a few days, but I will always love you…both of you."

"But I want to be happy again. For some reason God chose me to survive…there's always a plan…I'm not saying that that's the whole reason things happened the way they did, but…" Lyla sighed hard. It had been a part of her book, something she hadn't gotten into with Tim.

My faith is important to me and it always has been. I don't use it for a crutch or as my whole reason for existing, like I'd done once before, but it is still a part of me, she thought to herself, her fingers sneaking up to touch the small silver cross that she'd taken to wearing again. She got it when she was a small girl. It felt like she always had it.

She closed her eyes, whispering, to herself as much as to Michael and John. "I want to be happy again," she breathed. I deserve to be happy again. After everything that's happened to me. She opened her eyes, smiling at the stones, and whispered. "I will be happy."

Lyla stood up, dusting at her jeans. She took one last, long look at the stones before she touched them one more time, her fingers drifting over the coolness one last time. She turned around, returning to her car and drove off.

This time she didn't cry.


	22. One shade the more, one ray the less

**_22. _**_**One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace**_

_**Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face;**_

I don't know where Tim is, Jason had told her again, after she'd called him at the airport in Nashville. By the way, your parents are freaking out that you just ran off, they think you're having a nervous breakdown again and your mother blames Tim.

Big shock there.

Lyla calmed her parents down with one phone call, letting them know she was all right; she had to do something in Nashville before she returned to Texas. If they wanted to see for themselves, they could drop by her house in Austin in a few days. Right now she needed a bit of a break.

Not really feasible, since she was supposed to be in Los Angeles for another interview for her book, but she'd make do. Arlene knew what she was getting into and Jason could help figure it out too.

She'd stopped at the house just to grab her Mini Cooper, an impulse purchase after she received her advance on her book; she drove quickly down the dusty roads near Tim's house, finally breaking over a hill and seeing the white house on the hill.

The next book she had in mind was about the house, oddly enough. It was more of a rehab center than she believed Tim realized. It had helped him. Now her. She hoped he could continue to help others by using it as a bit of a…retreat of sorts for his friends.

And she had another idea in her head too.

She'd work on that later.

The red little car pulled up to the front of his house, parking behind his black truck. That thing is still running, I have no idea how, she mused. She went up to the house, knocking quickly on the door.

I should just go inside.

"What are you doing?"

Lyla turned quickly, seeing Tim standing at the base of the porch steps, holding a fistful of roses. She frowned slightly, glancing towards the rose bush she'd planted, three years before; it was massive now, rising up the side of the house. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, stepping towards the edge, her arms crossed.

He blinked at her. "What are you doing?" he repeated.

She pursed her lips, shrugging her shoulder. "I came to…get inspiration."

"Oh." He pushed his hand through his hair, glancing away. Anywhere but at her. "That's nice," he sighed.

She waited a beat. "You don't call, you don't write," she said, her voice cool. Sarcastic, even. She quirked her lip up; smiling wryly. "That all you have to say? That's nice? Seriously Tim?"

He turned his head towards her again. "Will you go inside please?" he whispered.

"No."

An eyebrow arched. "No?"

I will be a petulant child, she thought, standing off against him. "No, I won't go inside," she said. She came here for a reason. She threw her hands in the air, laughing at him. For all she knew, he was getting the roses for his girlfriend who he had upstairs in bed.

Not that Tim Riggins would ever do that, although when she was six he gave her a dandelion on the playground, but that didn't mean he'd do it now.

"I just…"

Just say it Garrity.

She wiped at her eyes, whispering. "I am in love with you Tim. Okay? I've gone through hell the last few years and I…and I love you." She couldn't put it all on him, she had to put some faith in herself.

She shrugged again, whispering. "Maybe I would be here, but it would have taken awhile. It would have been harder. You knew what it was like and you helped me. You don't know how helpful it was to know that there was someone else who knew what it was like to wander. To take the judgment and the pity from others. To feel like you're just…this second-class person because you went through something that not everyone goes through."

"And I love you," she whispered. She pursed her lips again, her eyebrow lifting. She dropped her eyes to the ground, waiting a second. That's all she could really say. "And…" She lifted her head, staring at him, smiling after another moment. She quirked her lip up. "And…" She laughed, throwing her arms in the air. "And I don't want anything but…I just want to be happy!"

That's what I want. To be happy.

I deserve it.

That got her a small smile, but it wasn't enough to meet his eyes. He glanced down at the flowers, returning his eyes to hers, whispering. "Go inside, please."

What are you doing?

She turned around, stepping into the house, pausing when she saw Byron lolling about on the couch. Where did he come from? He should have been in Austin.

Her typewriter, the only thing she used that had a cord attached to it to help her write her books, was sitting on a desk facing the outside, with the windows pushed open, a light breeze brushing back the curtains she'd gotten to help match the couch he finally ponied up money and bought, replacing the ancient one he'd dragged out of the shed from Billy's house.

The desk was obviously handmade and very well done too. She removed the chair, the white paint chipped and worn, with a cushion that had violets on it. Her hand touched her typewriter, glancing at the photograph of Michael and her that she'd kept on the desk at her townhouse.

Beside it, there was a photo of her and Byron.

There was a vase, sitting empty beside the typewriter. Along with stacks of empty hardcover books.

Tim stepped around her, dropping the flowers into the vase, whispering. "It's not much….pretty silly, I just…Mindy picked out the chair and stuff and…and I made the desk, but…yeah, it's not…" He sighed hard again, mumbling, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Know you like flowers and…it's stupid. It's nothing."

Stop rambling Tim, you don't ramble, she thought briefly. She smiled wide; huge. This is mine. This is my place.

A place to write.

Here.

My place.

My home.

Damnit Tim, that's why you left New York early. You were going to…same idea I had, she thought. I really don't know what to say…

So she said the first words she thought of.

"You're an idiot," she sighed, smiling wide, turning quickly and grabbing hold of his face, silencing whatever he was about to say, her fingers gripping at the back of his shirt after a second, refusing to let go.

It was about three years of pent up…frustration, she supposed. Sure, they'd kissed. More than a few times, but he stopped before anything went further. It annoyed her. She'd start second-guessing whether she was ready for…that connection again, after he'd put a stop to it, making the decision for her.

And then came the trial, where he was probably the most grown-up he'd ever been, when it ended.

Since then…she hadn't allowed herself to go further than just kissing.

That isn't me; it's never been me, she thought, reaching down to his shirt, beginning to undo the buttons. She got it partially off his shoulders before Tim broke the kiss, his hands going to her hips, whispering. "Wait."

Her eyes lifted to his and she frowned. "Tim, if you stop this…"

"No, hang on, this isn't…" He sighed, holding his hands out. "You want it like this?"

"I want it the way I want it," she smiled, touching his forehead with hers again, whispering against his lips. You silly, stupid man. She touched her lips lightly against his. "I'm not going to break."

I want this.

And I want you.

He closed his eyes, but she could feel his smile. "I just want to make sure."

"I'm fine. Believe me."

"Oh I…" Tim trailed off, swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He nodded quickly. "Yeah, I know."

And you would know, she thought, thinking of when she'd pulled down the blanket on the couch, seeing him standing in her living room. For a moment, she'd thought it was a hallucination from mixing alcohol and pills. Or just lack of sleep and general craziness.

Then she'd thought she'd died again or something, just for a brief moment, and this was like…her version of hell. Then she'd realized he was real, he was there in her house, and for a moment relief washed over her. It wasn't someone who she would…fear seeing her that way. It was someone who could help her, even if at that time, she didn't want help.

Now though…

She pulled away from him, her hands framing his face again, taking a deep breath. He just looked at her, a tiny smile on his lips. Happy. "Why did you come to New York?" she murmured.

He lifted her up from the ground, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her towards the stairs, nudging Byron out of the way. "Figured it was about time I see you," he said, kissing her again.

"Jason called you."

"Jason called me."

"And you came."

"And I came."

She laughed, dropping her feet, swinging from side to side as he spun her around in the hallway. Thank God for that, she thought, breaking away again to just grin. "What if you didn't?" she whispered.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't come to New York?"

Tim shrugged, pushing open his bedroom door, nudging her into it and pushing her back onto the bed, following suit, his arms braced over her. He smiled. "Guess this might have taken longer."

It was nice to know that he assumed it was inevitable. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face down to hers, whispering. "Love never subsides into friendship."

"Mmm?"

She shook her head, smiling, whispering. "Nevermind." She laughed, pulling his face back towards her.


	23. Where thoughts serenely sweet express

_**23. Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.**_

_**And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,**_

"I just want her to sign them."

Tim pushed Billy away from the living room, tackling him outside onto the porch. He snatched the book from his brother, throwing it aside, where it landed in one of the planters attached to the porch railing, embedded in the petunias. "No," he replied.

Billy scowled. "Mindy wants them signed for her book club."

Now that was surprising. He frowned. "Mindy's in a book club?"

"They drink, Tim, and they call it book club. I don't know why they don't just drink and say they're seeing each other because they want to get drunk together, but they're women and they have to have a reason for it, it's weird," Billy lamented, reaching over into the planter, removing the book. He turned it back around. "She's going to be my sister-in-law, the least she can do is sign the books."

He rolled his eyes, taking the book from Billy, dusting dirt off the cover, and mumbled. "I don't know if she's going to be your sister-in-law."

"Tim you're going to marry Lyla, everyone knows this is true."

That's the freaky part. Everyone did know it was true.

Not like he had plans to propose or anything; in all honestly, he'd thought of it only twice in the last two years that he and Lyla had been together. Each time had been on the anniversary, which was coming up in a few days.

Tim pushed his hand through his hair, glancing down at the cover of Lyla's newest book. Her third novel; the second one had been a runaway success after the first. The second book was essentially about a threesome between two best friends and the girl they both loved. It was sad, tragic, all that stuff that critics lapped up and for some reason people paid to read. It had a happy ending; well…bittersweet was more Lyla's taste in endings.

The dedication of that book had simply been "For my boys." Tim wasn't sure if that was him and Jason or if it was for John and Michael or…or all of them or what.

And this book was about something a little bit happier, but not by much. Mostly it was based on her childhood, growing up in a small town, told from a few different perspectives. The kid across the tracks, the girl from the trashy family, and the rich kids. The middle-class kids. All their differences and similarities.

Once he asked her if she was going to run out of material; there was only so much she could write about their lives. Lyla had just said that she'd find more. "Small-towns might be small," she'd said. "But they have bigger stories than the biggest towns. Stories that need to be told."

Tim agreed.

"So how is Garrity doing?" Billy asked, as Tim forged Lyla's signature in the book cover, sitting down to do the rest of the books. It was something he did, because if Lyla knew how many people asked him for signed books, she'd never stop signing her name.

He set it aside, picking up another, scribbling off some random signature with his left hand, to at least give it the appearance that Lyla was autographing the books. "She's okay."

"Tim, seriously?"

Alright fine, so 'okay' wasn't the best word. "Good days and bad days," he said, glancing at his brother. He leaned back on the porch swing, propping his feet up on the railing. Billy mimicked his position, reaching down to grab a beer, cracking open the cap and passing it over before opening up one for himself. He took it from his brother, sipping, and set it down against his thigh, reaching for another book.

He glanced sideways again. Billy was watching him. He shrugged "Billy, she's pregnant. She's having a baby and she'd already had one…it's hard for her."

Although she was holding up better than anyone expected. Except for him. He knew she would be okay. When she found out, she'd been terrified. She hadn't had a breakdown or anything, but she'd just…she'd accepted that what happened was a freak event. It didn't happen.

Only four months to go, he thought, his stomach a ball of nerves at the thought. He pushed his hand through his hair, leaning back in the swing, rocking slightly. "So you think I should marry her?" he asked.

Billy snorted into his beer. "I think you should have run far, far away. Didn't I tell you that Lyla Garrity was nothing but trouble? I still remember it. You were thirteen, you'd come home from practice and destroyed the house because you were jealous and crushing on your best friend's girl."

Yes, you did, and no I didn't listen. "Billy your advice has never gotten me to the best of places," Tim calmly reminded his brother. He picked up another book, turning it over to the back, reading through the 'About the Author' paragraph.

Billy reached for it, glancing down at the small little box, underneath a black and white photo of Lyla with Byron, sitting on the porch and smiling softly. It didn't completely meet her eyes.

"Lyla Garrity's debut novel, _The Castle in Texas _was a New York Times Bestseller and won the Faulkner Award for Fiction. Lyla can often be found writing outside, praying and reflecting, and living life to the fullest. She lives in Texas with her basset hound Byron," he drawled. He glanced at Tim. "Says nothing about you."

"The way it should be." Arlene was still trying to get him to go on Lyla's book tours. She didn't give interviews. Only a small handful, saying her books were for her and if they sold, they sold, and if they didn't, they didn't. She kept away from the limelight, which was also his choice.

No interviews, ever. He was and would forever be known as "Lyla Garrity's mysterious significant other." The standard answer when asked about her love life in some interviews was "No comment." Lately she'd started having fun with it, because everyone wanted to know. "I have a robust sex life," she answered in one interview. It shut up future questions on the subject.

That was embarrassing when he walked into the bar that night.

He reached for another book, signing it, and glancing sideways at Billy, who was just looking at him. "What?" he asked, returning to the inside cover. He sighed. Something was on his brother's mind. Great. "What's going on Billy?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"Nothing, I'm just proud of you Tim."

He froze. He turned his head slowly, peering through his hair at his brother. After a second, he spoke, his voice quiet. "You got cancer or something Billy?"

"What!? No!" Billy yelped. He rolled his eyes; throwing the books into the bag he'd brought them over to the house in. "Nevermind, forget it, I was just saying."

Tim smiled a little. "Thanks," he whispered. He finished the last book, dropping it into the bag at their feet, leaning over his knees. He lifted his eyes, scanning the front part of his land, seeing a car coming towards them in the distance. Not many people ventured this way. He sighed, whispering. "I love this place."

"I know you do." Billy sipped his beer for a few seconds, swallowing audibly. "You know," he whispered, reaching to pick at the label on the bottle. "I was so scared after you got out of jail. Didn't know what you…what you'd do and…and I know I gave you shit about Tyra, but…that was mostly because Mindy was giving me shit about it, but…you know she really, really helped you."

It wasn't just her, although yeah, she was a part of it, Tim figured. He wanted to see where Billy was going with this before he spoke. Billy continued, keeping his voice quiet. "I know it's been awhile…like…about ten years."

Ten since I got out. Eleven since I went in.

"But I'm just…I know I was worried about you and Lyla too, but you know…if you did for her what Tyra did for you, then…then that's good and I'm…proud of you." Billy glanced at him again, whispering. "And all that you have now. It's…it makes me feel better, even though I know you probably don't care about how I feel, but…makes me feel okay about…what I did, you know?"

They hadn't talked about that…in almost ten years, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. "Billy," he sighed. He shook his head. There still really wasn't much to say. He didn't want to get into it all again. "What you did," he laughed. He sighed hard once more. "What you did was wrong, you still know it was wrong, but yes…I…I helped Lyla…if that makes you feel okay, then…"

Then okay.

He let it falter, glancing to the door, which pushed open with a creak, Byron wandering out, holding onto what looked to be a mastodon bone. There was a kerchief around his neck that had a Dillon Panther pawprint on it. As well as drool stains. "Hello son," Tim greeted the basset, which plopped down at his feet, holding the bone between his paws and beginning to gnaw.

Billy leaned back in the porch swing. "So what's Garrity's new book about?"

It was about him, but he wouldn't tell Billy that. It was two brothers. And their complicated relationship throughout the years. Tim found the outline, even if Lyla didn't know he'd seen it yet. It was preliminary stages right now.

He sipped his beer, waiting a second. "It's about dogs," he lied, smiling at Billy. He snorted. "Like I'll tell you. You'll tell Mindy who will tell the town who will tell the world and then Lyla will get mad at me and I don't feel like having a pregnant girlfriend mad at me."

"You need to marry her. Make an honest woman out of her."

Lyla hadn't said anything about that yet. They would, just not right now. Not until she was the one who came to him about it. Tim sat up when a car pulled into the driveway. "You know that person?" he asked, not recognizing it. Or the woman driving the shiny sedan.

"Dunno, but I better get these books to Mindy."

"Yup."

Billy picked up one of the books, slapping his shoulder. "Tim you signed your name!"

"Force of habit." He ignored his brother, who just walked off to his truck, throwing the books in the back and waving, driving off. Tim stepped off the porch, approaching the older woman climbing out of the sedan. "Hello," he greeted her.

"Hello," she replied, with a soft Southern accent, smiling warmly. She held out her hand. "You must be Tim. I'm Marjorie Kelly."

Michael's mother, he immediately remembered, now seeing the resemblance between the woman standing in front of him and some of the pictures Lyla still kept of her life with Michael. He smiled softly, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you."

The front door opened. "Marjorie!" Lyla exclaimed, hurrying down from the porch, smiling wide, her arms outstretched. "You came!"

"Oh honey I missed you!" Marjorie exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Lyla, laughing and crying. She pulled back. "Let me look at you!"

Lyla immediately did her little belly hold, as he called it, where she turned sideways and wrapped her hands over it, making sure to pull back the billowy shirt she was wearing to emphasis her bump. "I know, right?" she whispered, smiling sadly at Marjorie. "Second one…just a little bit farther along now."

Tim glanced down at the ground, placing his hands on his hips, waiting. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. "You going to be okay?" he whispered.

"I'll be fine," she replied, her smile pulling up again. It met her eyes this time. They all met her eyes this time. Even when she was sad. Her arm went around Marjorie. "Come inside, I made some iced tea and some lemon drop cookies this morning…let me show you this place."

Marjorie said something about how calming this place already seemed to her, which Lyla agreed with, walking her up into the house, Byron remaining behind, wagging his tail at the excitement of a newcomer.

Tim didn't know that Michael's mother was coming to visit; Lyla just told him she was having an old friend over for a couple days. He didn't question. He was glad of it though, glad that she still stayed in touch with the woman who would have been her mother-in-law. It probably helped Marjorie to know that the woman her son loved was moving on, was happy again.

Especially this weekend. It was the fifth anniversary of the attack.

Hard for him to believe that five years ago he'd gone into that little house in Nashville, at the request of Buddy, and his life was upended completely.

He glanced down at Byron. "Let's go on a walk," he suggested to the dog, walking off towards the pond, to the dock he finally finished. The basset hound stuck his nose to the ground, not lifting it despite many calls for him to come back from where it led him.

Finally, he shoved the dog into his truck, driving off towards the bar, where he found Buddy behind the bar, trying to train the new bartender, a ditzy former Rally Girl who failed out of Dillon Tech.

I managed to get through Dillon Tech, Tim thought, thinking of his associate's degree, proudly hanging next to Lyla's Vanderbilt diploma in the upstairs guest bathroom. Where degrees belonged, the two of them joked, although no one else could understand why they put them there.

He took a seat at the bar, Byron falling to the floor at his feet. "Tim Riggins, that dog cannot be in here, it's a health code violation," Buddy yelped, leaning over the bar. He waved at Byron, cooing. "Hello Byron." When he looked up, he glared at him again. "Out."

"I need a beer, Lyla's busy."

"What's she doing? She okay? Saturday is…"

"Yeah, I know," Tim interrupted. He took the beer Buddy gave him, cracking the cap himself. He took a long sip, shrugging at the look he was receiving. "Michael's mother is in town to be with her. I'm giving them a chance to catch up."

Buddy nodded, glancing down at his feet. He leaned on the bar with his forearms, waiting a beat. Never a good thing, when Buddy Garrity had to think about what he was planning on saying, he thought. Tim glanced down at the bar, waiting. When Buddy said nothing, he cleared his throat. "What's going on Mr. Garrity?"

"Tim, you're living with my daughter and she's pregnant with your baby. I think you can call me Buddy."

He smirked, the bottle hovering beneath his lips for a moment, meeting Buddy's eyes. He smiled, a little softer this time. "What's going on Mr. Garrity?" he repeated. I can't call you Buddy.

For a moment, Tim thought Buddy would let whatever was on his mind go. He leaned back, prepared to go back to the Rally Girl who was currently trying to make a martini using rum. What kind of a kid are you to grow up in Dillon and not know your liquor, especially if you were a Rally Girl, Tim wondered, glancing back at Buddy.

Finally, Buddy released the breath he'd been holding. "I guess it's…the anniversary this weekend, but…I am very glad you went to help her," he whispered. He smiled a little, reaching to pat his hand. "Thank you Tim."

Thank you Buddy, he thought, nodding slightly. He lifted his beer to his lips, pausing, and then took a very long pull, setting it back down with a soft clink. "Mr. Garrity?"

"Yeah Tim?"

He closed his eyes for a second. This was silly. He opened his eyes, meeting Buddy's. "Can I marry your daughter?" he asked. Blurted out. It was really, really stupid.

Buddy frowned, his brow wrinkling. He glanced around and then back at him. "Tim, you got her pregnant and you're not marrying her? Why are you asking me?" He pointed to the door. "Go ask her! And we are not having a hospital wedding Tim Riggins. You make it legal before that baby comes out."

Tim smiled.

And that was Buddy Garrity's way of begrudgingly saying yes, you have permission to marry my daughter, Tim thought, his smile growing to a full grin, tilting his beer back and taking another pull.

He remained at the bar for a few more hours, finally leaving and returning home, where Lyla and Margorie were having a deep conversation on the porch. He took Byron upstairs, got a shower, and crashed in bed.

I'll talk to her about it in a few days, he thought. Not yet. Not until after the anniversary.


	24. A heart whose love is innocent

**A/N:**Here we are, the last 'official' chapter. I have a bit of an Epilogue, but the fic can stand on its own with this chapter as its ending. If you want to see the Epilogue (after reading this one) just drop a review, I'll post it once I clean it a little bit. Thanks for those who have reviewed, I'm glad you enjoyed it. The next fic might be in a bit, I am cleaning up something I wrote a long time ago, that didn't get any views when I first posted it, so maybe I'll try again. Thanks again for the reviews :) Enjoy.

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_**24. The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,**_

_**A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!**_

"Safe flight," Lyla whispered, giving Marjorie one last hug goodbye at the airport, a few days after she flew in to visit. She pulled away; smiling down at the woman she would still consider her mother-in-law. Despite her vow not to intrude on Marjorie's life or on Michael's family's life, she'd somehow found herself contacting them again.

She loved them like her own family; they were going to be her family. It wasn't like she could just…forget them completely. Even though she'd tried. After the books came out, Marjorie had contacted her and she'd returned the calls, the letters.

And after she got pregnant, she let her know, to…prepare her, maybe? Lyla wasn't sure, but Marjorie had been thrilled for her, much like she had when she'd told Michael's family the first time.

"Continue to stay in touch," Marjorie whispered, squeezing her hands and giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She smiled again. Michael looked like his mother, with soft blue eyes that crinkled in the corners and light blonde hair that fell in a gentle wave over their forehead. They had patrician cheekbones and straight noses, but Michael's father had been a bit more rugged. Big. Michael got his height, almost six and a half feet, from his father.

It was so weird to think about him now. Lyla didn't cringe. She didn't cry. She just smiled at the thought of being with such a great man, someone she loved so much, and then went about her day. "I promise," she vowed to Marjorie, kissing her cheek again. She touched her stomach.

Almost immediately, Baby Riggins punched her hard. She smiled a little at the movement. John was too small for her to feel him kicking and punching before she…she had to give birth to him. It felt like almost immediately she could feel Rigger, as people had taken to calling the baby, combining 'Riggins' and 'Tigger' into the same word, punching and kicking her.

Hence the Tigger name.

Marjorie glanced down at her stomach, smiling and placing her hand over it. She lifted her eyes again, sparkling with tears. "I am so happy that you were able to overcome what happened. That you're writing and you're…you're with someone who loves you. That you're having a baby."

"It wasn't planned," she whispered. Not like that mattered in the end. She licked her lips, closing her eyes around tears. It was hard to reconcile herself now with herself five years ago. She nodded a little, her voice cracking. "Tim and I are going to get married." Not that he'd proposed yet.

The idiot was waiting for her to say something, because he was still nervous she wasn't…ready or something. Idiot, she thought lovingly. She wiped at her eyes, squeezing Marjorie's hands again. "This place really helped me."

"I can tell," Marjorie chuckled, giving her one last hug, whispering. "You were happy Lyla, I'm just glad you still are."

Me too. She returned the hug, letting her go and waving as her…friend, she supposed Marjorie was now, walked into the airport, waving goodbye. Lyla waited until she was gone before she turned around and climbed into her Mini Cooper, driving away.

Rigger proceeded to kick her the entire way home. She touched the swell, sighing. "We're almost there, I promise." And like always, she swore the minute they ended up at the house, the baby calmed down. Like it was instinctual, to be here and calm down.

To have what you wanted.

Lyla climbed out of her car, closing the door and going into the house. She walked over to her writing nook, in the front of the house, which was sort of a study, but Tim had cordoned off with built-in cabinets and bookcases. Her desk, which he'd made was pushed to the corner, so she could look out of the windows on either side, giving her an unrestricted view of the sun over the hills.

The typewriter was pushed to the side, because she'd been handwriting some of her newest book. The saga of Tim and Billy, but in this case it was a little bit deeper. She wondered if she should tell Tim, but knowing him, he'd snooped and seen the outline she'd left out on the desk, forgetting to put it away.

She turned around, setting the hardcover book in the long line on the bookcase behind her. Her fingers brushed over some of the awards she'd received for her two novels. Arlene, her agent, was positive that more would follow for her third book. Julie, her editor, concurred.

I don't want awards. I don't want to do interviews.

This wasn't even something that I wanted for myself.

To be honest, she wanted to go into business of some sort. She had the head for it and she enjoyed it. She planned on getting her MBA once she got married and had the baby and Michael was situated with his career as a lawyer. It would have been hard, but she wasn't going to become her mother…getting pregnant and married young and giving up her dreams for the guy's. Michael was supportive of it as well…and then it all fell apart.

Lyla Garrity, the best-selling novelist, of dark and twisty books about human relationships, exclusively set in small-town America. Victim of a terrible crime who came out of depression and did not let it define her, but shape her. How many times had she heard something like that in the last five years?

She left her writing nook, walking out onto the porch, taking a deep breath and inhaling. It smelled like a storm. It was so funny how she was more in tune with the land here now than she'd ever been when she lived in Dillon. It was just so calming.

Texas forever, she thought, opening her eyes, seeing Tim out by the dock. If he wasn't on the porch, he was at the dock. She was glad he'd finished it up; he liked the water. One day she couldn't find him and thought he was dead, just floating in the water. It had been a bad day with him and Billy, if she remembered right.

Rigger started kicking her again. "Okay!" she exclaimed, glancing down at the bump on her waist. It was high; with John she carried him low. The doctor told her that all pregnancies differed and she couldn't compare one to the other, especially since her first pregnancy hadn't…ended well. All she could find was the old wives tale about girls carried high and boys carried low. Weird.

It didn't matter to her or to Tim. All she wanted was to get through this. To have a healthy, happy baby. That's all she wanted.

She turned around, going back into the house and picking up a book, worn and marked, carrying it outside with her. The sun was relatively bright on one side of the sky, while the clouds seemed to rumble in from the other side of the sky, but she dropped her sunglasses down onto her nose, walking out through the grass, barefoot, to the dock.

Byron looked up from the edge of the dock, thudding his tail, but he didn't lift his head. He finally did when she knelt down, kissing his forehead and rubbing at his long, soft ears. "I love you," she whispered, kissing his wet nose again. She continued to rub his ears, looking up at Tim.

Who was sleeping.

She smiled, letting go of Byron and stood, sitting beside him on the bench, resting her head on his shoulder and drawing her feet beneath her, turning so her stomach was resting against his thigh. She opened the book, turning to her favorite poem, reading.

They would do this a lot; it was so comforting to her. Tim could sleep through a tornado and she could sit forever, reading or writing or just…sitting. Calm. Taking deep, even breaths.

He shifted, slumping a little farther down on the bench. She slid down, her head on his thigh, turning onto her back, reading. Rigger kicked a couple times. Her hand covered her belly, whispering from the poem. "_So we'll go no more a-roving, so late into the night_…_though the heart be still as loving and the moon be still as bright_."

The whispered words calmed down Rigger, who settled back down into whatever little comfortable position he or she stayed in when he or she wasn't kicking her to death.

After she finished the poem and started another, Tim shifted beneath her. She sat up, leaning against him again, her stomach pressing back against his side, while she leaned on his shoulder, the book propped up on his knee. His eyes fluttered open. He sighed, his arms crossing a little tighter around himself. "Stop it," he mumbled.

"Who?"

"Rigger. Tell her to stop."

"He'll stop when he wants." They used pronouns interchangeably, but Tim defaulted to a girl. She lifted her face, looking up at him, but he was drifting off again. She lightly touched his arm. "Hey."

"Hey."

What are you thinking, she wondered, touching his arm again. It was a light enough pressure to have him open his eyes and shift, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Thank you, she thought, propping her elbow on his shoulder and placing her head in her hand, watching him for a moment.

My best friend, she thought. She ran her finger over his jawline. "You need to shave this thing," she mumbled. Not that the beard wasn't attractive on him, but he was starting to look very mountain man.

He quirked a lip, running his fingers along his chin. "You don't like the soupcatcher?"

"You look like a dark-haired Santa."

"It's not that bad."

"With the long hair? You're looking like Paul Bunyan."

"I look like a lot of people with this beard."

Lyla sighed, shaking her head slightly. She pursed her lips, her hand over her belly. Rigger was going at it again at the sound of his voice. She had to go inside and eat a bunch of chocolate chip cookies, which usually calmed down Rigger.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Byron get up, walk to the edge of the dock, and just look down at his reflection, all the wrinkles in his face and jowls falling forward like a mane around his face. Basset hounds were so funny looking, she thought.

"I should push him in, just to see what he does."

She rolled her eyes. "He'll get back at you somehow. He'll push you in or he'll pee in your shoes or something." Byron could be a little shit when he didn't get his way.

Tim smiled, rubbing his knuckles on her upper arm. She released another sigh, her hand wrapping tighter around the book in her lap. Just do it Garrity, she thought, glancing at Byron again. "Are you going to marry me or not?" she demanded.

"Excuse me?"

She grinned, lifting her face up, smiling at him. "Seriously Tim? I'm five months pregnant. We've been living together for almost two years. I…I think we can make it," she laughed. She knew what his hesitance was. It wasn't that he was scared of it…of the commitment or being good or bad at it.

Although knowing Tim, he definitely had some insecurities about being a father and family man, even though she knew he was better suited to a long-term thing than anything short-lived.

He was afraid for her, which was nice, but…I'm going to be okay, I…I've made it this far. I've gotten better. I am better. Lyla brushed her hair from her face, smiling again. "I'll be fine," she whispered, reaching over to squeeze his hand tightly, the book still pressed between them.

"I love you," she said, sighing hard, her eyebrow lifting. She ran her tongue over her teeth for a second, positively grinning after a moment. "You know Tim, I…we've wasted a lot of time and…and we only got that one year to really be…what we were and it was hard and…and then I left and…" She sighed, glancing down at her stomach, her hand pressing against it. Rigger stilled.

She tossed her hair out of her eyes again. "Tim I think if Michael was still alive, I wouldn't be here. You'd be with someone else. You'd be happy, but you'd be with someone else and…and the world works in very strange ways."

He turned his head a little, watching her and saying nothing. "And I want answers to a lot of things, but God is…God has a plan," she continued. She shrugged. "And I'm not privy to it. Why did Michael have to die? Why did John have to die, I mean…why couldn't he have lived and I'd have been a single mother? Why did you have to go to jail and why, why, why, but I can't ask why, because I will never get answers." She licked her lips, shrugging, tears beginning to prick into the corners of her eyes. "All I can do is just…thank God that it wasn't worse. I wasn't killed. Michael didn't suffer. John was able to survive long enough for me to see him."

I'm rambling. I really don't even know where to go with this. Lyla laughed. She bit down on her lower lip, the tears falling over her eyelids, trickling down her cheeks. Tim still didn't move, just letting her speak. She loved that about him. No interruptions. "And whatever God's plan was, it led me back to you. I mean you…it led you to me, more like, because…well you kidnapped me."

He smiled, shrugging his shoulder and whispering. "Only way to get you out of that house."

"And it worked," she breathed. It worked. Taking her out of that place. Bringing her to this beautiful piece of land. The only thing Tim ever wanted in the world was just his little piece of Texas. Even long before their lives changed so drastically, that's all he wanted. To run Jason's ranch for him, drink beer, and enjoy women.

Guess now he can do that, even if it's just one woman, she thought with a small smile, remembering that night vividly. It was so funny how you could remember things and forget others. She couldn't remember Michael's voice for the life of her, but she remembered quite vividly how he laughed.

And she remembered that night crystal clear, how she was so happy with Jason, it was the beginning of football season…and then she couldn't remember the night he actually broke his neck, it was all a blur.

Tim frowned, releasing a sigh. He was obviously confused, she observed. He didn't know what to do or say right now. She reached for his hand, squeezing harder. "Tim…"

"You were so…messed up," he whispered. He closed his eyes, his voice soft. "You know what I know and saw…but Lyla…I just want to make sure that…" He turned his head, whispering even softer. "Look, I know…I know you're here and…I know you wouldn't be here if you didn't want it."

I know, she thought, nodding slightly. He knew it all, but he was still a little insecure. It was just who he was. She wondered if sometimes he woke up, scared that it was all a dream. Sometimes she did. "I love you," she whispered. She kissed his knuckles, lowering them down to her belly. She shrugged her shoulder, smiling. "And you're right, I wouldn't be with you if I didn't love you with everything I had, Tim. You're not second choice."

"You loved Michael."

I did love Michael. I loved Michael and I know I just told you that if he were alive I wouldn't be with you, which was true. Maybe. It wouldn't have occurred to her to return to Texas, to be with her high school boyfriend. Things just happened to work that way.

And we had almost two years apart, she thought to say, reaching up to touch his face. She dropped her forehead against his, whispering. "You let me go Tim. You stood there and you let me go because you knew that I needed something else, something else in my life to live for besides a person. You let me find it. I found it. And you found yours."

Now we can be together, she thought, her nose brushing his. He stroked her hair back from her face, his hand pressing into her shoulder. He sighed again, smiling a little. "So…" He sighed harder. He shrugged. "You wanna' get hitched?"

_You wanna' get hitched?_

She arched an eyebrow, replying drolly. "Whatever happened to the romantic proposal, like out of a movie?"

"Your favorite movie is a tragic romance."

She grinned. Yes, it was. She giggled, just giving him crap and he knew it, smiling at her. Movie romances were great, but Tim Riggins was not going to get down on one knee and propose to her. Wanna' get hitched was as close as she was going to get and she knew it.

"Well Riggins, I thought you'd never ask," she giggled, pressing her lips against his, holding his head steady as she kissed him, laughing when he enveloped her up into his arms, pushing her back onto the bench, her legs wrapping around his waist.

He broke away from her, his hand going to her stomach. "I would do this here, but…" Tim grinned, glancing towards Byron, who was watching them. "We have an audience and…what the hell is Rigger doing now, beating a drum?"

She giggled. That was the first time he'd felt it. She'd been feeling them for a while now, but they weren't strong enough for Tim to feel. "Hiccups," she managed to get out in her fit of giggles.

"Hiccups!?"

"Yes." Great, now I'm going to get hiccups, she thought, feeling her diaphragm jump as she tried to breathe and giggle while trying to get Tim to stop kissing her. She kicked her feet in the air, laughing uncontrollably and hiccupping, while Tim just said how much he loved her and tried to bite her neck. "Stop!"

"I have sharp teeth, watch out!"

"Stop it, oh my God Tim!"

They rolled off the bench onto the dock, with her finally managing to get to her feet, pointing at him as he tried to lunge for her. She glared. "Don't you dare!"

"I have to put this ring on your finger, don't I?"

Her face fell slightly. Why didn't he say that earlier? "You have a ring?" she asked, moving towards him, but she should have known when she saw his dark smile and his eyes twinkling. She was about to run off, yelling his name, when he grabbed her around the waist, lifting her up and spinning her around, carting her towards the house. "Tim I'm going to be sick!"

"You can't stop me. You don't have morning sickness anymore."

She continued to giggle. It was just a part of living with someone as unpredictable as Tim could be sometimes. He was a mess of contradictions, which was why she loved to write about him. One moment he was this quiet, steady person, always predictable. The next he was jumping out of his chair, grabbing hold of her and spinning around in circles, loud and the life of the party.

Resting her forehead against his again, she smiled, noting that his legs were set wider than hers, his feet on either side, to bring himself down to her height. He always did that. "So you have a ring or not?" she mumbled against his lips.

"In the house, I was just waiting for…" He paused, glancing away, quiet and nervous again. "The right time."

"It's the right time Tim." It's been the right time, but I appreciate your…hesitance. She kissed him once more, to reassure him. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she pulled back, letting go of him and turning back to the dock, where her book was sitting on the bench. "Can you go get my book please?"

"I don't have to, I know what you were going to read."

Oh you do, do you? She arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Tim nodded, his lips brushing over hers again, whispering. _"She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes; thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies."_

How is it possible for me to love you even more right now, she thought, hearing the poetry tumble from his lips, like he was the one who wrote it and not Lord Byron. It was surreal. Tim Riggins quoting poetry. "How did you know?" she whispered. How the hell did you memorize it? That was exactly what she was going to read. It was her favorite.

He quirked his lip up, whispering. "I know you. Besides, you read it enough and I read over your shoulder. Not like I memorized it on purpose, Garrity, and I'm probably never going to forget it." He scowled. "And Garrity, I know you love that stuff, but what the hell is it even supposed to mean? Why can't he just say, hey this chick is hot, why all the flowers and crap?"

Flowers and crap. I love you, she thought, kissing him and letting go, walking up to the house. She went to her nook and sat down, reaching for the hardcover book and picked up her pen, sucking on the end of it before she began to write.

A few minutes later, he came over with a mug of tea for her, sweetened with just a bit of honey, or as Tim said, he just stuck his finger in it to give it sweetness. Little shit, she thought lovingly, as he set down some cookies next to her other elbow. He dropped a kiss to her head and she tilted it back a little, smiling.

She continued to write, eating her chocolate chip cookies and tea, which calmed Rigger down considerably. Sugar and tea, this kid really is a combination of Tim and I, she thought, moving her pen across the page, giving 'Hunter' a line to his girlfriend about poetry being 'flowers and crap.'

Hours later, she lifted her head, the room dark and the sun already set; at some point Tim had removed her dirty dishes and set something else in their place. A box.

The pen fell from her fingers to the crease of the book, the pages flipping over it. She reached for the box, opening it up with a crack, staring at a pretty diamond ring. It wasn't just a diamond though, she thought, staring at the black stone set in a platinum band, with two small diamonds on either side. You got me a black diamond engagement ring, she thought, slipping it onto her left hand, where it fit perfectly.

Somehow the idea of a black diamond ring for her marrying Tim was perfect.

She smiled, closing the box and setting it aside, returning to her writing.

That night, she left her nook, crawling onto the couch over him, stretching out beside him and kissing his cheek, while he watched ESPN on TV. "So do you want to go tomorrow to get the marriage license?" she mumbled, kissing him softly. "Or next week?"

"I'm kinda' busy tomorrow."

"You are, what are you doing?"

He sighed, lifting his eyebrow. "I'm getting a marriage license with someone else, I can pencil you in for Wednesday."

"You're an asshole." She kissed him again. Rigger started punching them both. She glanced down at her stomach, groaning. "I'm going to have bruises from this kid, oh my God."

"He's just happy."

"I have to talk to the doctor, this can't be normal." She reached her hand behind her head, lifting her eyes up to the ceiling. "We're getting married. Soon."

"We better tell your dad. In fact, we better tell him you're knocked up."

She continued to ignore him; it would only get worse if she egged him on. Her voice seemed distant to her, like she was listening to herself speak from the end of the hall. Her fingers fell from his hair down to his shoulder as he kissed from her neck over her stomach, his lips resting above her belly button.

It wasn't like she really dreamed of her wedding, once she ended her relationship with Jason. It faded, much like her dreams of childhood had. She imagined a big wedding with Michael, with John in a bassinet, going down the aisle with her. Now, here she was, marrying Tim, five months pregnant, and she had no idea what she wanted from it. "I think I probably shouldn't wear white," she mused.

"Why not?"

"It's virginal. I'm five months pregnant."

He wrinkled his nose, smiling a little. "I should probably tell you something," he whispered, mock serious.

"What?" She knew she shouldn't have said anything. He was in a happy mood. That was always dangerous.

"I'm a virgin."

Lyla grabbed the pillow from behind her head, beating him across the face with it, hearing his giggles. He was so freaking happy, but when he got this giddy, it got frustrating for her when she wanted to be serious. "Come on Tim! I'm being serious!"

"Okay, okay, I'm a camera, I'm focusing."

She sat up on her elbows, studying him. He was watching her, serious again. This time she knew he was, he just got a look. She pushed a strand of hair from his forehead, twirling it around her finger before letting it go. It took a second, for the words to reach her. "I want this to matter Tim, I want it to last, and…and I know it will, but…I want you to know that I…you are the one I am with and you are the one I love. Okay? Michael is gone. Michael…" She wrinkled her forehead, whispering. His greatest fear was that he was the second option; that yeah, she was only with him because she wanted to be with someone and he was there. That wasn't the case at all.

Especially since he was the one who let her go, almost to make sure of that. "You're not competing with a ghost. You have no reason to be…to be nervous of that."

"I'm not."

And you said that so fast. She kissed him lightly, crawling off the couch and taking his hands when he stood. Yes you are. "I told you," she murmured against his lips. "I wouldn't be with you if I didn't want to be. If I didn't love you. I wouldn't do that to you Tim, my life isn't like that anymore…I don't need a guy to be who I am, okay?"

He pushed his hand through her hair, holding her face close to his. They stood like that for a few minutes, until he kissed her again, nudging her towards the staircase. Byron grumbled when they had to step over him, refusing to move. He stopped when they reached the stairs, breaking away from her slightly. He seemed nervous again. "You going to be okay…I mean…"

"It's just a day Tim." It was just a day now. On the calendar. Something that happened to her. She kissed him lightly, feeling his lips move from hers, going down her neck, pausing at where it met her shoulder. She released a long sigh, knowing what he was thinking. "I still have scars."

There was a scar along her abdomen. There were scars on her heart. In her mind, still. Sometimes she had nightmares. Once she had anxiety attack when she was in a hotel on a book tour, in an unfamiliar room, waking to pitch black.

The one on her neck…it was time to go. She didn't need to see it in the mirror anymore to be reminded of what happened and how far she'd come from it. It wasn't going to be used as a prop, as all the appeals had ended for the men who had done this to her. She went in, had the skin grafts, and all that remained after a good plastic surgeon's work was a slightly pinker area of skin on her neck and shoulder.

"I liked it," he mumbled against her shoulder.

She kissed his jaw, where there was a thin scar from where he'd gotten into a fight, in freshman year. Caught a bit of a beer bottle. She and Jason had to drag him to a 24-hour urgent care to get stiches. "I like your scars too," she mumbled.

"My favorite one," he whispered, stepping her back up the stairs, smiling against her lips, his fingers drifting away from her neck to her chin, his thumb pressing into the thin white scar she had, which deepened when she smiled. "This one."

"You remember how I got it?"

"Yup."

No he didn't. "How?"

"Fell off the top of the pyramid. Cut it on a rock when you hit the ground."

How the hell did he remember that? They let go of each other, turning and going upstairs, where she went into the bathroom and changed, prepared for bed, and went back into their room, wearing one of his shirts with her favorite pair of pajama pants, finding him half-asleep in bed, splayed out.

She smiled, moving him over and crawled behind him, her arm wrapping over his chest. Byron jumped up, weaseling his way between them, resting his head on her belly. Rigger seemed to chortle in happiness.

My ring is pretty, she thought, holding her hand up to survey it in the darkness. She was sure they left a light on somewhere downstairs, but she really didn't care. TV was on a timer, because Tim always left it on and wandered away. It would turn off in a few minutes.

This weekend had been hard, seeing Marjorie again, but…she'd gotten through it. As she had the other days. The other years. As she would continue to do so.

Her hand brushed across her stomach.

You couldn't forget it, but you had to move on.

She inhaled deeply, snuggling closer to him, his jeans scratching her feet. He was going to wake up and be annoyed he fell asleep without changing, but she knew if she woke him up while undressing him they'd get involved in something she was too tired now to bother finishing.

Rigger kicked her lightly. "I can't forget you," she mumbled, smoothing her hand over her belly. She looked down at it again, smiling.

Tim pushed against her. She kicked him, knocking him back towards his side of the bed. Creeper, she thought, when he rolled back against her again. She pushed him harder; his eyes opened. "Hey, do I gotta' dress up for this thing?" he asked, his voice scratchy as he repositioned himself on the bed.

She reached for her pregnancy pillow, wrapping it around her side so she could turn a little and give herself the illusion she was sleeping on her stomach. "Dress up for what?" she asked.

"The wedding."

One of her eyes opened. She smiled, shaking her head. Only Tim. "I would like you to please wear a shirt that is buttoned most of the way." All the way might be asking too much.

"We doing this tomorrow?"

We'll get the paperwork tomorrow, we'll go down to the courthouse and make it official. So yes, tomorrow. "I think so," she answered.

"Hmm," he mumbled, nuzzling into her neck. He smiled. "Shouldn't the groom not see the bride before the wedding?"

Lyla spread her hands over her belly; his covered hers. "I think that's the least of our worries."

One of his eyes opened. He smiled again, hugging her close. She stilled, listening to his even breathing. Her eyes lifted up to the ceiling. Thank you, she thought, feeling…content.

I'm happy, she thought, glancing sideways at him. That's what he wanted for her; he told her so, during her rehabilitation time. I've paid you back for what you did for me, because I'm happy again.

Rigger kicked her again.

She shook her head, smiling.

_**End**_


	25. Epilogue

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! So glad people enjoy this. Here is the other, more final version of an Epilogue. I actually have a story set in the six weeks between seasons two and three that I removed from the site after some comments about the quality kind of forced me to reedit. I'll think about posting it again. :) Thanks and enjoy this last bit!

* * *

**_Epilogue. _**_**So, we'll go no more a roving, So late into the night, **_

_**Though the heart be still as loving,, And the moon be still as bright.**_

"Rigger!"

Jumping up from where she was snooping beneath her parents' bed, Rigger jumped, looking up and around. She shoved a box beneath the bed, hurrying out and into the hall, ducking into the bathroom and coming out just as she heard her dad coming up the stairs.

He emerged around the banister, smiling at her and then frowning. "What did you do?" he demanded.

Nothing. "Nothing," she repeated from the thought in her head. She smiled, long and slow, a carbon copy of him. She rocked back on the heels of her cowboy boots, giggling when he just smiled, walking around the steps to stand in front of her, his hands on his hips. "Hi Daddy."

"Why hello Little Riggins, what did you do," he repeated, not missing a beat.

The eight-year old held her arms up. "Pick me up."

"I don't speak that language."

She rolled her eyes. "Pick me up…please," she drawled, holding her arms up again. She flashed a smile at his eyebrow lift. "Pretty please? With cherries on top?"

"Hmm…I don't really like cherries, but I'll oblige you." Her dad lifted her up onto his hip, grunting with exertion. He kissed her cheek. "You're getting too big. Stop growing up."

"I'll try." Rigger, known only on her birth certificate as Annabelle Taylor Garrity-Riggins, but to the rest of the world as Rigger, wrapped her arms tighter around Tim's neck as he carried her into his bedroom, setting her down on the bed. She glanced over the edge, seeing the box still peeking out from beneath it.

Uh oh.

It was just…she knew it was under there. She'd seen her mother looking through it sometimes and she wanted to know what it was. Was it presents? A secret? She had to know.

Instead of presents, she found newspaper articles about two guys who were put in jail and about an accident her mom was in and she saw tons of pictures of her mom with some other guy. Who was that guy?

Rigger wanted answers.

Tim stepped away from the bed, going over to his closet. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked, reaching in and grabbing a clean shirt. He glanced over his shoulder at Rigger, who was sitting at the head of the bed. Byron was beside her, unmoving from where he'd been sleeping when they walked into the room.

His daughter was hiding something from him. She was always up to something; the idea of her really just coming out of the bathroom wasn't believable. She'd been in here doing something.

She shrugged, reaching to take a pillow, plucking at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look again over the side of the bed.

Ah, so we were snooping, were we, he thought with a small smile, going into the bathroom and changing out of his dirty clothes from where he'd been watering Lyla's garden, and into a clean flannel shirt and jeans. He walked over to the edge of the bed, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.

It was about time she started wondering about Lyla's previous life.

He carefully pushed the box back beneath the bed with his toe, clearing his throat. He'd bring it up if it came up, right now he'd let her wonder. "Think pizza might be good, you want pizza?"

"Olives!"

He made a face. He hated olives, but Garrity liked them and now Mini Garrity loved them too. Tim sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at Rigger, who was still trying to look like she hadn't been up to no good. It wasn't a problem, if she was snooping and wanted to know things.

He and Lyla never hid anything from her, but…he knew she probably had questions. Damn, I wish she was here to have this conversation, he thought, reaching for Rigger's feet, dragging her to the edge of the bed and hauling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The stream of infectious giggles made his heart swell about six sizes large. He spun in a circle when they reached the hallway, which sent Rigger into even more giggles. He ran down the stairs, spinning her around some more. "I'm gonna' drop you!" he threatened, grabbing her feet and holding her upside down.

"Put me down!" she laughed. "Daddy no!"

The two of them fell onto the floor, where she jumped up, grabbing a pillow from the couch and hitting him into the face before she settled her small body onto his chest, crossing her legs. She weighed almost nothing, so it didn't feel like anything, but he smiled, making a face. "You're 1000 pounds, get off."

"Never." She hit him with the pillow again, leaning down to grin in his face, showing off the couple missing teeth they'd spent all night with a toaster, piece of string, and the stair banister to get rid of. "I want olives on my pizza."

Gross. "With pepperoni and sausage."

"Yucky."

"Half and half?" They went through this every time they got pizza. It always ended with them getting half olives and half pepperoni and sausage. When Lyla was around, that's when it got tricky, because she liked onions on hers. We should just make our own pizza, he thought, lifting his eyes back to his daughter. "That good for you?"

Rigger made another face, sliding off of him and hitting him again with the pillow, not saying a word. She stood up, crawling onto the couch and turned around. "When's Mommy getting back?"

Should be anytime now, he thought, frowning slightly when he heard the rumble of a car coming up the drive. He arched an eyebrow, smiling. "I don't know." A second of silence passed, until the unmistakable echo of a car door slamming filtered in through the open windows.

He just smiled, while Rigger froze. Her eyes lit up, waiting and vibrating like a live wire. She said nothing, until the front door opened.

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

Cue the scream, he thought, lifting his eyes up and just smiling when Rigger opened her mouth, screaming "Mommy!" and scrambled up and over the couch, when it probably would have been easier to walk around the couch, her cowboy boot heels clicking madly on the hardwood as she skidded around the stairs to get to the foyer. The entire time she screamed for Lyla.

I can't miss this, it's the best part. He got up, leaning over the couch so he could see Lyla yelling along with Rigger, kneeling down to envelope the little girl tight in her arms. He grinned wide; he loved watching this. He got up, slowly walking towards the foyer, giving Lyla and Rigger a few minutes.

He leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing, watching as Lyla fell back onto her heels, Rigger not letting go. Byron was running around them in circles, woofing and expressing his happiness that his mistress had returned.

It's been two days, he thought with a small smile; of course, for an eight-year old, that was like a million years. He waited until Rigger had let go of Lyla, bouncing on her feet and chattering a mile a minute about how she missed her, she wanted to tell her everything they did while she was gone, and oh yeah, did she bring her presents?

"I did bring you something," Lyla said, reaching into her bag. She removed a box, smiling and waving her finger in a circle. "Close your eyes, don't look…"

"Is it a toy?" she giggled.

"Hang on…" Lyla winked at him, leaning over Rigger's shoulders to place a snowglobe into her hands. She leaned around her, whispering. "Open them."

Rigger's eyelids flickered, only to pull back as her eyes widened at the beautiful snowglobe in her hands. She smiled, mouthing 'wow' as she shook it, watching the snowflakes swirl around the castle in the center, with a prince and princess in front of it.

Lyla knelt in front of her, turning a key in the front of the base of the snowglobe, holding it aloft so Rigger could watch, silent and mesmerized, as the prince and princess began to move around the castle, as a pretty song floated from the bottom. "Wow," she whispered, holding it tight. She smiled, looking up. "Thank you Mommy."

"It's your castle," Lyla whispered, kissing her cheeks, giving her a tight hug. She patted her back, guiding her towards the stairs. "Why don't you go put it upstairs in your room? What are we having for dinner?"

"Pizza with olives."

"Half and half!" Tim yelled, waiting for Rigger to make her standard face of crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out at him. He wagged his finger at her. "One of these days it's going to stick that way and I'm not going to do a thing about it." He smiled, waiting until her soft footsteps faded.

He turned around to Lyla, who was standing a few feet in front of him, her arms crossed. He grinned. "Hi."

"Hi," she replied, unfolding her arms and walking towards him, wrapping them around his neck, her lips brushing over his. She kissed him a little deeper, mumbling. "I missed you."

Two days, it was only two days, but yeah, he missed her too.

He wrapped his arms tight around her, sliding his bare feet out so he was her height. "How'd it go?" he asked, letting his arms fall down to around her waist. He lifted his eyebrows, smiling slightly. "Cause' we watched you on TV. It looked good."

"Thanks," she replied, kissing him quickly. She sighed. "I hate interviews."

"I know."

"So what did I miss around here?"

Not much. He nodded towards the ceiling, whispering. "Rigger was going through the box. I think she's got some questions. In fact, she's probably still going through the box."

They hadn't discussed how to talk to her about this, but…she was eight. How much could she understand? She still thought that Santa existed, although he was sure she was starting to grow suspicious. He didn't want her to…to lose that innocence.

Lyla wiped her hand over her face, dropping her cheek to his chest. She waited a moment, lightly pushing away from him, turning around and going upstairs. Damnit. He hurried after her, unsure how she was going to do this, if at all. He came to a stop in their room, where Rigger was peeking up from the other side of the bed, looking sheepish.

"I was just looking for Byron," she lied, rather convincingly, if he hadn't walked in on her with her hand in the cookie jar, metaphorically speaking of course. Rigger peeked beneath the bed again. "Byron, where are you?"

Together, he and Lyla walked over to the bed, where she sat on the edge of it and he crawled over to sit on the other side, as Rigger stood up, sitting beside Lyla. She glanced around, everywhere but at her, finally whispering the answer to Lyla's silent question. "I found it. I was looking for Byron and I found the box."

Your game Lyla, he thought, lifting his eyes up to her. He shrugged his shoulder, when she met his eyes, waiting a beat. She smiled quickly, her hand going to cover Rigger's. She leaned in, her voice quiet. "Do you have any questions about what you saw in the box?"

Rigger nodded quickly, shifting her weight on the bed. She didn't meet their eyes, choosing to look down at her hands, which were very interesting to her. She finally heaved a sigh. "Can I see it?"

"Yeah," Lyla answered. She reached beneath the bed, removing the box and opened it up, taking out a photograph of her and Michael, pointing to him. She cleared her throat, clear and concise. "This is Michael Kelly. I was going to marry him. Before I married your Daddy. He died. He was hurt very bad and he died. A bad man hurt him."

Her brow wrinkled, but she said nothing, not looking up from the picture. Tim moved closer to her, his hand going to the small of her back. Rigger jumped a little, but he didn't move it, frowning slightly, but knowing how to explain. "You know…you know how Aunt Tyra married Uncle Landry?" That was a kick in the pants, when she arrived to Christmas dinner with him in tow.

Rigger nodded quickly. "I wasn't flower girl."

That was another conversation about weddings and elopements, but Tim continued. "And before…there was…Jim." Jim was the instructor, the one she was with for about seven years, before she dumped him when he was caught with one of the other teaching assistants. "Remember Jim?"

"I don't like Jim."

Yeah, neither does Aunt Tyra or Daddy, he thought, ignoring it and kept going. "Point is kid, Michael and Mommy were together before she married me and had you. Okay?"

"A bad man hurt him?"

Lyla nodded, reaching to touch at her neck, pulling her hair back. "See these scars?"

"No."

That was the point, he thought, of the plastic surgery. To remove the scars. There was just a fine white line, that could only really be seen if she tanned pretty dark during the summer. He took a deep breath, listening as Lyla calmly, quietly, told Rigger that two bad man hurt her and hurt Michael. Michael died and went to Heaven, like where her guinea pig went and like where Stevie's rat went.

She didn't tell Rigger about John; Rigger was still too young to understand that, but one day she would. She would and it wouldn't be that big of a deal.

Right now it looked like she was going to be their only kid; Lyla had had some problems with her in the end and more babies were not recommended. He didn't have a problem with that. Rigger was the love of his life. If she was the only one, so be it.

He got up, leaving Lyla and Rigger, closing the door behind him, giving them some privacy.

The soft click of the door shutting behind him echoed throughout the room; Lyla waited a minute, glancing down at Rigger, who still seemed confused at all the stuff in the box. She reached in and removed a sonogram of John. Her eyes closed briefly and she slipped it into one of the small little photo albums.

She was too young to understand the idea of a baby being born early. Too young to understand that he died because he was just too little. This was hard enough for her to get.

All she knew, was that Mommy had a box hidden underneath the bed and there were lots of pictures of a guy kissing Mommy that wasn't Daddy. And she was old enough to know that kissing was something adults did. That you didn't kiss someone else if you were already married.

This wasn't how I wanted to spend my time after coming back from work, she thought, reaching to stroke at Rigger's soft dark hair. "Honey do you have any questions?" she whispered. I know you do.

"Why did someone hurt you?" Rigger asked, lifting her eyes, curious. She looked back in the box, taking out the first volume of her book, flicking through it and tossing it back into the box. She lifted her eyebrow, too smart for her own good sometimes. "This was hiding. Why?"

"Because," Lyla answered. She smiled briefly, glancing down at her hands, which were gripping the edges of the box. She tossed her hair from her eyes, smiling wide at Rigger. "Because this was…it makes me sad sometimes. Because my friend…Michael…he died. He's not here anymore and it makes me sad. So I put it under the bed."

Rigger picked up the book again. "This your book?" she asked, flicking through it again. She smiled. "Can I read it?"

"I'm sure you can, but it's for adults…one day. Just not right now," she answered, slowly taking the book from Rigger and placing it back in the box. She took the lid, covering it and kneeling to put it beneath the bed again.

After a moment, she realized that she'd never really answered Rigger's question about why someone wanted to hurt her. She didn't have an answer to that. Just that…sometimes people were bad. They did bad things. Rigger was too young to know or understand that.

I want her to remain innocent forever, she thought, leaning forward to brush her lips over Rigger's forehead. "What do you say we go downstairs, okay?" she breathed.

Rigger nodded quickly, climbing off the bed and walking out of the bedroom, looking up as she clomped her shoes down the stairs. "I want to go outside and water my garden!"

"You can do that, do you need help with the water?"

"No, I'm fine."

Lyla remained in the living room, looking over at Tim who was hanging up the phone. She watched her daughter run outside with Byron, going over to the hose and chattering away to Byron about her garden and how they were going to pick flowers and all the vegetables.

She smiled, her arms crossed, looking sideways at Tim. She ran her tongue over her teeth, seeing the look in his eyes as he slowly approached her. Right now you're calculating the amount of time it takes the pizza guy to get here, Rigger to get bored with her garden, and the time necessary to get me upstairs and all my clothes off, she thought, pursing her lips as he drifted his fingers over her shoulders, coming to stand behind her.

Reaching back, she tugged on the collar of his shirt. "I got you something," she murmured, thinking about the manuscript she finished while she was in New York, for the few interviews for her newest book.

"Oh yeah? It have anything to do with you taking off some of these layers," he said, lifting his eyebrow, tugging on her sweater. She chuckled, but did nothing when he nuzzled into her neck, murmuring. "It's been two days."

"Two weeks, actually."

"I can't count anymore."

"You never could," she retorted, turning around and kissing him. She broke it a moment later, her forehead knocking into his for a brief moment, before she finally tore herself away, removing a thick sheaf of paper from her bag.

Ooh, he thought, taking the papers, studying the title. "The Little Clover," he read, lifting an eyebrow, frowning slightly. He flicked open the few pages to the first paragraph. He read a few lines, before he closed the manuscript, his eyebrows furrowing to a point. This was different. "Rigger."

"It's about time she made her appearance."

"What are you going to do with her?"

"It's a mother and daughter story, but I finished it in New York." It was just…something she'd been working on. It wasn't like it was her most…fluffy, she thought, book. That word was never used to describe her books, which were often considered dark and twisty, but with surprisingly hopeful endings.

Last year when she'd started, she thought she'd just go about doing something…like her relationship with her mother or something. Or maybe Tyra and her mother or just…just mothers and daughters in general. Then it turned into this…this little story about a woman with her five-year old, on a beach somewhere, just the two of them and what the little girl taught the woman.

Taking from her own life of course.

Lyla left him alone with the manuscript, removing a bottle of beer from the fridge. She cracked the cap and took a long sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and sinking back onto the couch, her eyes closing as she just took a moment. The flight was so damn long.

And she'd had a nightmare at the hotel in New York.

That night she'd called Tim; talked it out with him, like she usually did when she had nightmares and he wasn't around. The best she could figure was she'd been drinking at a book event with Arlene and she'd gotten kind of turned around while going from the event to a cab, walking around by herself at night for a few blocks. It must have just kind of stuck with her subconscious, coming out during the dream.

Her fingers brushed over her stomach. She took another sip of beer. No more babies for Lyla, per the doctor's orders. The previous damage from her unscheduled C-section and the accident had placed too much stress when Rigger was almost full term, so they'd delivered her early. The doctor strongly advised against any more children.

Although lately she'd been wondering if they should broach the topic of a surrogate or adoption. Rigger deserved a sibling, she thought, glancing at Tim as he collaposed down beside her. She stretched her legs over his knees, passing him the beer.

For a moment, she watched him sip it thoughtfully, looking out through the open French doors at their daughter in her garden. Rigger had traded her cowboy boots for a pair of her garden clogs and a floppy hat, probably pulled from the crate that she kept on the porch.

Lyla shook her head slightly, turning her face towards Tim, smiling. She reached for the beer again, whispering. "You ever think of having more children?"

"Hmm…" he shrugged, still watching Rigger. He sighed. That was a no, she figured. She knew him well. Knew that he'd start trying to talk around it, until he just let it go completely or changed the subject. His voice dropped. "I don't know…I mean…I like kids, but…" He turned his head towards her. His brow wrinkled; trying to read my expression, she thought.

He seemed to fumble, because he wasn't sure what the answer was. "I just…Annabelle…"

The fact that he used her given name was an indicator how serious he found this conversation, she thought, glancing back to Rigger. Annabelle. It was such an old-fashioned, pretty name. She'd wanted something timeless. All Tim wanted was to slip in Coach's name somehow. They chose Taylor, rather than Erica, because it seemed to flow better to the both of them.

But she'd been Rigger the moment she was born.

He frowned, frustrated. "I just…I like the one but…I mean…I guess maybe…" He glanced again, his brow wrinkled, obviously distressed because he didn't have the answer.

And I'm not going to give you the answer, Tim, you have to find it on your own, she thought, sipping the beer. She turned the bottle in her hands, lifting her eyes up to peer at him. She shrugged her shoulder, whispering. "It's alright if you don't want anymore children. I was just curious…not like we've talked about it."

That was the answer for him; he deflated a bit, nodding slowly. "Yeah, I just…I like the one. I don't know if I want to…mess what we have by trying to adopt or something."

I'm content with it being the three of us too, she thought, nibbling at her lower lip. If God planned more children for her, she'd have more children, regardless of the doctor's orders.

Just like she'd been the one to survive a terrible accident. She'd been the one to turn her life around. There was always…something. Some sort of light at the end of the tunnel.

I'm glad I didn't do my first option of just…well she supposed it was just laying on that couch for the rest of her life. Just wasting away in self pity. She turned her face to his, whispering. "When do you think we should tell her about John and…and the rest of the accident?"

They both turned her heads slowly towards the doors, seeing Rigger dancing around in the backyard, singing to herself, holding the garden hose aloft and spraying it on just about everything but the garden.

She was so innocent, Lyla thought, smiling. The most perfect thing in the world to her. She understood why Tim would only want one. To not…not upset the status quo. It worked well, the three of them.

They were happy.

"When do you want to tell her?" he replied, quiet.

That was the kicker. It was her decision, wasn't it?

Never, if she had a choice.

When she's ready, she thought. When she's old enough to ask questions, to figure it out…just not right now.

Right now I plan on savoring.

She stood up slowly, stepping over Tim's feet and went to her bag, removing the newest hardcover she was working with, and returned to the couch, stretching back against Tim, who she already noted was dozing off. "I think you have narcolepsy," she murmured, uncapping her pen.

For added comfort, she draped his arm around her shoulders, not hearing his response because he was fast asleep, and began to write.

A few minutes later, Rigger ran up into the house and turned on the TV, the sounds of some cartoon filling her senses, but she didn't break her concentration, too busy focusing on her newest novel.

Well, not so much a novel.

Lyla figured she'd give children's books a shot. She'd choose something…happy for once.

The doorbell rang, a few minutes later. "Pizza's here!" Rigger yelled, jumping over her to get to the other side of the couch, forcing Tim awake with a start, his arm wrapping tight around her neck, forgetting she was there, which had Lyla scrambling to stop him from strangling her, the book flying up into the air.

She fell onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling, a smile on her face.

"You okay?" Tim asked, leaning over her.

Are you okay?

Lyla closed her eyes, snorting with laughter. She barely managed to get out through giggles. "Never better."

"Mommy!"

She turned her head, seeing Rigger scowling from the front hall, holding the pizza box at an angle, so grease and cheese dripped onto the floor, Byron licking at it frantically. "What's wrong?" she sighed. Tim what did you do?

"There's no olives! Daddy got all sauasage and pepperoni!"

"Tim!"

Tim shrugged. "What? I live with two women, I can't get my way once?"

"Mommy make it better!"

Make it better. Oh I'll make it better, I'll maim your father later, she thought, peering up at him with a tiny smile. She laughed, covering her face with her hands. She began to giggle uncontrollably, like she did sometimes. Rather than have an anxiety attack she had…

Laughing attacks.

Rigger peered over her. "What's wrong with her?"

Tim shook his head, guiding Rigger and the pizza to the kitchen before he went to the front door to pay. "Your mother is happy, just leave her be."

"She's weird."

Lyla snorted, laughing again.

THE END


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